


Giving All

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adult Trauma ICU, Angst, Car Accidents, Case fic details as a plot device, Complete, Cuddling & Snuggling, Discussion of Marital Infidelity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Johnlock, First Time, Funeral, Good thing Sherlock is a control freak, Goodbyes, Greg Lestrade's office, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson Returns to Baker Street, John is a Mess, Kangaroo Care, M/M, Medical Trauma, Mention of Impending Character death that will occur outside of the actual writing, NICU, Newborn babies are exhausting, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Organ Donation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parentlock, Paternity Concerns, Post-Season/Series 03, Revelations are coming, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock is a Mess, Tags Contain Spoilers, Wedding Rings, end of life issues, meaningful gift giving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 00:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7076746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not that long ago, Sherlock had said, "Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you."</p><p>He is keeping his vow.</p><p>Following a catastrophic auto accident, John has been holding vigil at the hospital, where Mary is comatose in the ICU, and his premature daughter lies in the NICU.  Sherlock is a constant presence at his side as John navigates a difficult situation and finds support in their friendship in solid, dependable ways.</p><p>++</p><p>Out of great difficulties can bloom tiny wildflowers of hope.  The hard situations in life can show the true strength of a person, and of a friendship.  Sometimes, great loss is necessary before true love can emerge to be fully appreciated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ripple in the Fabric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A traffic accident, an unexpected early birth, and a hard path ahead of John. He does not, however, walk it alone.

John looks up, realising someone had spoken to him and was waiting for a response.  His brows knit together and he glances at the speaker.

From his side, at his elbow actually, there is a presence.  Excluding time in the shower, time in the loo, and occasionally a few minutes when John has been under someone else's supervision, Sherlock has been at his side.  From his place next to John since this nightmare had happened, Sherlock spoke.  "That's fine.  We can be ready then."  The confidence in the tone and the gentle touch at John's back are both comforting and cautionary.  John heeds it, keeps his tongue.

He is exhausted, can tell his body is in survival mode, and barely at that.  It has been forever since he's slept, and there is no appetite no matter what his well-meaning friends and co-workers hand him.  Even now he is running on empty, nauseous, stomach roiling.  He tries to remember what question had just been asked, and knew Sherlock would take care of it, fill him in.  He also knew, with a sense of dread, that his day was about to get worse.  Much, _much_ worse.  He is familiar with medical bad news, and can sense, taste, smell, and feel that it is coming.  Plenty of times, he has given it, gently and with heartfelt apologies.  This is, he knows, different.  And this is personal, devastating, overwhelming.

The doctor and the social worker exchange a somber glance, both smile sadly at John, leave the room silently.  "I'm sorry, I just didn't..."  Sherlock watches John's face as sadness and confusion vie for top billing.  He clears his throat.

Sherlock nods, backs up a few steps.  "It's fine, John.  They understand."  The tone is cool and John feels moistness in his eyes again as his look snaps to Sherlock's face.  "We -- I understand."  

There is a melancholy minute, followed by another.  John knows his brain is firing on empty, that he has not processed much over the last week, that he is missing something mission critical.  He tries to concentrate on the room they're in, just a large conference room in lots of dark wood and a massive highly polished table.  "What is it?" he finally says, the crack in his voice unstoppable and embarrassing, as is the need for the question.  He is preoccupied, overloaded, and hasn't eaten substantially or slept more than brief intervals in days.  His _transport_ , as Sherlock would call it, was failing him.

"She's brain dead, John.  The doctor explained all this to you."  He waited for John to nod, and John recalls the words, the syllables broken down to sounds, got distracted by the accent and the tone and missed some of the message.  The more he'd tried to focus, watching the speaker's mouth, the less he heard.  Sherlock's brows come together.  "The EEG is flat, her brain is without bloodflow, and there are no reflexes, no brain stem function."  Sherlock has witnessed over the last few days that despite his fried emotions, John is still able to communicate medically, fairly well at that, so he reverts to a language John understands.  He speaks a few words about the apnea test, that the cerebral perfusion scan is completed, imaging shows profound cerebral edema, and that Mary has met brain death criteria.  He uses the word irrecoverable and it sticks on an indefinite loop in John's head for a few moments.  The words death certificate startle him back to the present room, and he is horrified by his stupidity - a _bloody physician_ unable to put things together, connect the dots.

John feels his eyes start to dry as he looks at Sherlock, staring, wide eyed, the blink reflex temporarily suspended.  Sherlock will fill him in completely, John knows, and is waiting for him to process a few details first.  "Brain dead."  The slow nod is punctuated by the gripping squeeze in the center of his chest, and he breathes, blinks, repeats, " _Mary_ is brain dead."  Saying it again seems to re-connect something, and John realises he was expecting this news, knowing there was only a few shreds of hope that the swelling inside Mary's skull would ease.  It was apparently not to be.  With a guilty twinge of shame, he feels something similar to _relief_ in finally knowing the truth. 

"Do you need to sit?"

"No."

"She is listed on the organ donor register.  They want to go through what that means with you this morning."

"She would have wanted that."  John thinks for a brief moment about the car accident, the recent surgery she's already had, the emergency c-section and his tiny little premature daughter in the NICU even now, connected to oxygen and a feeding tube and fluids, with her paper thin skin.  

"We have an hour until then.  We'll go back to the nursery."  Sherlock has long stopped asking for John's opinion on most everything, simply deciding for them both, and since then, it's made for less stressful dynamics.  John is unable to make even simple decisions, and Sherlock's frustration with John and the whole bloody situation is lessened by just taking care of it.

John only nods, realising vaguely what Sherlock was doing for him, that his mind was too numb and too fragmented, unable to decide even simple things like between a turkey or a ham sandwich.  Or whom to visit, which nursing unit to go to first, what doctors to talk with, and when to drink the terribly made tea.  Things had gotten better since Sherlock took over his reasoning capacities, stopped asking for his opinion, and John knew - deep down, when the processing was actually happening - that this would pass.  He would find one day that the fog had cleared, and Sherlock would go back to being a right prick most of the time.  He's been reduced to a sheep, with Sherlock as a shepherd.  He follows Sherlock, frustrated at the numb mind, the mental acuity that has been hobbled.  Sherlock pauses at the buzzer, smiles encouragingly at John, who presses the button.  That much he knows to do.

The NICU staff meets them at the door, and although they are familiar, the nurse checks John's name band and Sherlock's against the band on the tiny ankle.  The men pause at the sink to scrub, this behaviour already ingrained.  She has not gained any weight, yet, but Janie, the nurse by her bassinet, greets him with a smile.  "The doc says you should try Kangaroo care for a bit today, maybe try a feeding."  Janie is watching him.  John feels like he is a mobile human zoo - everywhere he goes he is being studied and dissected, with people who are watching him both afraid of his fragility and intrigued by his peculiar situation.   _Caged_ sums it up at the moment, he thinks.  "If you're up for it."

John says "Okay," and eyes the baby, the monitors, and reaches out a tentative finger to lightly touch her tiny foot with the glowing infrared pulse ox sensor.

But Sherlock hesitates, questioning whether it is wise for John.  "Explain."

John actually seems interested, and does not pick up on Sherlock's concern.  Medical questions are at least something he recognises and clings to.  He offers, "Skin to skin for the baby.  It's normal, preemies need it.  Usually..." and then it hits John anew, that there would be no breastfeeding mother, no maternal bonding to facilitate.

Nodding, Sherlock is already making plans.  "Fine.  Lose the jumper."  There is a button front underneath, which Sherlock knows because he picked it, only deigning to allow the jumper in the first place because it is comforting to John.  They are in the back of the NICU, with Baby Watson as the only critically ill neonate, next to a large rocking chair, which Sherlock gives John a gentle nudge toward.

His fingers clumsily work the buttons, exposing a vee of skin, a smattering of chest hair, and a healed scar barely peeking out over the shirt border.  When the shirt is completely undone, John looks to Janie.  In short order, Baby Watson's monitor leads and IV lines are tethered and the baby is placed, resting over John's sternum.  Janie can't stop the slight lopsided smile, and when John looks questioningly at her, she freezes.  "No, just..."  She helps John unwrap the blanket between he and the baby to let his warmth be right up against her, helps him get sorted.  "No, sorry."

For all the other emotions running amok in John's frontal lobe, he clings at something that made someone smile.  "Go ahead, it's okay.  I need..." and the sentence trails off and his eyes grow serious.  John has talked with her a few times, and as healthcare providers they do share a common language and the ability to discuss really horrific realities while maintaining their sanity.  The times John was at his best was actually when he was distracted and forgot that the grave situation he was discussing was his _own_.  He smiles at her, entreating her to speak.

Chagrined, Janie almost chuckles again, looks apologetically at John in the chair and at Sherlock who stands uncomfortably at his side.  "Just an inappropriate observation about chest hair, is all.  My apologies."  John smiles at her, and she reciprocates, then moves the blankets aside so they can see the newborn face without obstruction.  Janie adjusts the oxygen, wires, the pulse oximeter and the ECG leads.  "She's good, and you're doing great with her."  The temperature sensor on Baby Watson's abdomen alarms, and Janie silences it.  "She'll warm up in a moment, sharing your radiant heat.  The rest of her vitals," she nods at the monitor as they all look, "are good.  We have her at the central station, too."  Sherlock's head raises and he stares through the glass windows at the sections of the nursery, watching staff watching their tiny patients.  John follows Sherlock's lead, looking over to the doorway, mimicking his friend as he's been doing for enough days that he barely questions it anymore.  A pair of parents arrive at the door, John notes before turning back to the tiny bundle against him.  He is struck by the fact that, were it not for Sherlock, he would be here alone.

The baby is awake, eyes open, small bore feeding tube in her tiny nose, the tube delicately taped to a hydrocolloid dressing on one side of her cheek to spare her fragile skin.  Janie holds out a bottle of formula with tiny preemie nipple attached.  "Upright for sure.  Last feeding's a couple hours ago.  She might like it better from you, with the lot of you bundled up."  As other nurses have done a few times previously, she asks John for his mobile, snaps a few photos that show their faces, quirks a brow at Sherlock as if offering to include him which he quickly declines.  Then Janie nods at the three of them, disappears through the doorway, wanders back to the computer in the central nursery.  They are quite visible through the windows, Sherlock sees, and the baby and John are well monitored and supervised.

Sherlock mentally juxtaposes the large muscle groups of John's chest against the wee baby, and then the very small bottle in the solid fingers of John's hand.  Her mouth opens against the offering, but her suckle and her swallow are both ineffective and most of the feeding runs down her chin into the flannel tucked there to catch the excess.  They are quiet, the three of them there in the room.  After the bottle is partially emptied, John sets it down, angles differently in the chair, patting her back to nudge loose any trapped air.  She obliges, however, the burp comes up with more formula than John thought she'd actually taken in.   Chin wiped, cleaned, she wiggles against him until her eyes drift closed again though she squirms, makes a face.  Idly fascinated, Sherlock considers the baby in John's arms to have the most translucent skin he has ever seen or thought possible, as if, were he to hold her over a lamp, he might be able to see through her.  He wonders randomly if the bluish hue of her liver may actually show through the thin skin of her abdomen, but is fairly certain John would not be amenable to him checking.

Sherlock offers him the dummy from the corner of the cot she'd been in, and he slides that in.  If nothing else, it gives them both something to watch, the slightest little up and down movements, random, intermittent, as she falls asleep against John's chest, waking lightly to tug at it again, the rhythmic bobbing, just enough to keep them watching it, and her.  It is mesmerising.  Unable to look away, John considers the wisp of weight in his arm, resisting the urge to lean his head back, take his eyes off her.  Somehow, he worries that she might break, vanish, or otherwise suffer harm if he doesn't watch her every moment.  His eyes are dry, and he thinks that tears would help that but is unable to summon them.

"We should think about moving on, soon," Sherlock tells him, having consulted his mobile again for the time, knowing they had a commitment and that he would have to be the one to assure they were present.  The quiet is broken, and John stares down at the baby, thinks of returning her to the cot.  He tries not to think about the meeting looming over his head, to be held down the hall and across the building.  The meeting is a line in the sand, a plan, a concrete description of how bad the bad actually is, and how bad it will still get.  He feels like he is already abandoning the baby, in the nursery without him, already starting off life with a terrible handicap - to be motherless now a certainty - and then is wrenched with guilt over it all.  Sherlock touches him on the shoulder.  "Not your fault.  Just stop it."

John swallows, looks away, his arms coming around the baby as he lifts her up and away, wrapping her in the receiving blanket with teddy bears and balloons.  The blanket is too festive for his taste - none of this should be festive.  He sets Baby Watson down on the cot, reconnects the monitor lead he'd jarred loose in the transfer, flips the heater switch back on to medium where it had been.  Janie approaches then, having been watching them closely and seen the activity.  "Taking off for a bit?"  Carefully eyeing the baby, she makes a few adjustments and checks the isolette and seems satisfied that all is stable for the moment.  "If you want to run home a few hours, that's fine, you know.  We're keeping a close eye on her, and can ring you..."

John is unable to answer, helplessly looks over to Sherlock, who says gently, "I'll meet you in the hall.  Go ahead."  He will explain it out of John's hearing, out of compassion and to prevent him from having to endure the pitying looks that will certainly follow.  They will follow eventually, he knows, regardless.  And they both stare at him until he nods, grabs the jumper and redresses himself as he crosses the room to the exit.  He feels eyes on the back of his head, the silence almost penitent as they wait for him to leave the room before speaking.  He leans briefly against the wall opposite the door, closes his eyes, letting the grief and the guilt and the curious detachment keep him rooted to the spot.  When he opens his eyes, one of the nurses from the postpartum section, visible from the desk, looks away quickly, a sorrowful expression.  The door to the nursery opens then, and Sherlock is there.   With long fingers, Sherlock takes John's elbow, steers him toward the exit, where the nurses release the door lock so they can leave the secure unit.

++

The meeting with the NHS Blood and Transplant, the organ procurement organization, is surreal.  They discuss logistics of what will happen to Mary, of the recipients that will be matched and summoned to their local transplant centers.  They ask permission to use major organs, eyes, skin, bone.  John nods, "Fine.  She agreed. I hardly think she needs any of it now."

John sees Sherlock and the coordinator exchange glances.  "What?"  John isn't quite sure if any response is actually appropriate, so he embraces the dark humour for a bit, thinking this was preferable to the stunned and stuporous condition he was in, earlier.  "It's true.  Someone else might as well get to see their children, find other things to do instead of spending time on dialysis or waiting for their heart to fail completely or some such."  The nauseous feeling is back, and John is affirmed that he made a good decision refusing the last helpful person who tried to hand him sustenance.  He is fairly certain he would have been sick.  There is a warning glance from Sherlock, and John decides that he has said enough although a piece of him is ready to continue the rant about a new pancreas for the diabetic or the new lungs for the patient with pulmonary fibrosis.  There is a bitter taste in his mouth, but it seems to ease off as Sherlock just barely touches the back of his arm, a gesture of support.  Or a threat to shut up, John isn't sure.  Either way, unspeaking, he presses his lips together.

A paper is slid across the table and a pen is placed on top. A finger is pointing to an empty space where John signs on the bottom line, initials in a few various other spots as instructed.  The coordinator has been gentle and matter-of-fact with them both, walking them through the steps of the process.  It will likely be at least twelve hours, by the time they line up recipients, summon the transplant surgeon, and preliminary testing is completed.  She doesn't actually use the word 'harvest' but John is familiar with the term in these circumstances, recalls observing organ retrieval in his surgical residency.  Finally, she slides her paperwork away, shoulders the messenger bag and laptop.  "Do you have any other questions?"  When John wordlessly shook his head, she stood.  "Dr. Watson... _John_ ," she corrects as he'd requested at the onset, "thank you so much.  Your gift, Mary's gift, is very precious, and many lives will be changed - _saved_ \- as a result."

Sherlock is watching John closely, sees the reflexive swallow, the rapid blinking, the purse of his lips.  He catches sight of John's hand, of the thumb that nervously fiddles with his gold wedding band.  They hover outside the small consultation room by the ICU, and Sherlock is about to suggest stepping outside for a breath of fresh air when Lestrade rounds the corner.  He sees Sherlock first, smiles, then hesitates when he sees John standing there.  Sherlock deduces all kinds of things from that halting body language, makes a spur of the moment decision to spare John more bad news until he knows the extent of the impending damage.

"Why don't you go visit Mary?  I'll be in as soon as I get rid of Geoff."  He pokes at John just a bit with the name, just to see if John bites.  He doesn't, but nods, lets himself into the ICU.  His stride is surprisingly confident as he walks out of Sherlock's sight.  Even after all these years, he is still a paradox, Sherlock considers again as he joins Lestrade.

++

Mary is a medical one to one, based on the nature of her injuries and the upcoming busyness of the plans for the afternoon.  Her nurse is one John hadn't met before, and is a controlled flurry of activity tending medications, changing infusion rates, hanging intravenous bags, watching with acute clinical skills for the signs of organ dysfunction and preventing complications.  He drags a chair close to the non-busier side of the bed, sits down.  Mary looks the same, maybe a bit more swollen (understandable) and the bruising on her face a bit more green today.  His clinician eyes take in the vital signs, the infusions of dopamine and vasopressin, trying to perfuse organs.  The warming Bair hugger from yesterday for Mary's cold core temps has been changed to a cooling blanket today and presently registering a temp of 39, and John knows the fever is probably neuro in origin, not good.  The urine bag, John notes in passing, is nearly full, the colour in the tubing almost clear.  The providers are chasing her urine output every hour, he knows, with litres and litres of IV fluids, quarter normal saline, he sees, compensating for her sodium levels, then, his mind supplies helpfully.  The endotracheal tube has been moved to the other side of her mouth since he'd been in the room last, and the ventilator cycles in a rapid rhythm, trying, he realises, to normalise her hypercarbia.  There are foot pumps clicking as air is inflated and deflated, all designed to prevent stagnant blood, prevent DVT, minimize risk of pulmonary embolism.  He stares at them a minute thinking about blood flow to her lungs and that if they sustained damage from a pulmonary embolism now, it would be tragedy on top of tragedy.

All of these findings register on one level of John's brain, but on the other level, he reaches for her fingers, finds them cool and motionless, and it is still disconcerting.  The rise and fall of her chest are deceptive signs of life, as is the pulse at the base of her thumb, even as he knows the chest movement is artificial.  It is hard, even for him with his understanding of physiology, to reconcile 'dead' with heart still beating and chest still rising, lungs still being ventilated.  But it is true, and John looks at Mary's body, tells himself that Mary is no longer really here.  All the things that made Mary, _Mary_ , have ceased to exist.  He avoids looking closely at the outline of the abdominal dressing visible beneath the thin gown.

The nurse eyes the bank of monitors in the room, the vent screen, the patient, the clock on the wall, and she takes a deep breath, not quite smiling at him but close.  "I'm Jenn, Mary's nurse today."  John nods, unable to really come up with anything appropriate to say in response - certainly 'nice to meet you' would be...  John's mind derails as Sherlock comes to the door, and right behind him is one of the pulmonologists on staff and a respiratory therapist.  Jenn considers them and looks back to John.  "We'll be doing a bronchoscopy, just a quick study to make sure her lungs are in good shape."

John nods, "She was never a smoker.  Well," he considers the truth of that, "at least nothing recent.  Is that routine, I mean, for her age?"

Jenn's eyes are fixed on John's, briefly, before looking back at the pulmonologist, who speaks then, in a mildly apologetic tone, "Sometimes the transplant surgeon requests it.  We'll be pretty quick.  Sometimes they want a cardiac catheterisation, too, but her echo was pristine.  The bronch is, yes, routine."  The equipment and staff are at the door, and John stands up, knowing Mary won't feel anything but wishing none of this was necessary.  Ever a constant and dependable presence, Sherlock is at his elbow again, touches him and then leads him out the door of Mary's ICU bay.  He doesn't stop walking until they've actually exited the hospital's main entrance and are standing in the sunshine.  John hadn't even questioned it, simply followed where he was being led, trusting that he was being cared for.

Their trips outside the hospital have been only long enough to accompany John to the flat he shares - _shared_ \- with Mary every day or so for him to shower and change, then return to hold vigil at the hospital.  Sherlock has been doing much of the same, carrying a few changes of clothing in a bag, delivered and retrieved by his brother, John supposes.  He hadn't really thought about it much.  But outside the hospital feels almost scary, and he considers that he shouldn't get too far in case...  in case something else happens.  John blinks a few times in the natural light, takes a few breaths of fresh air, looks up at Sherlock.

Their eyes meet and hold as people manoeuver around them to one side or the other, getting on with their lives while John is stuck in a cycling nightmare of grief and the inability to move anywhere.  Before the accident, he was working in a clinic, flexing his hours to find time to ready their flat for the baby and meet Sherlock a few times a week, on the occasional case if anything was on or simply sharing takeaway and watching TV there on Baker Street.  His life now, had switched to a standstill, and it didn't even seem like he could possibly even be the same person.  It wasn't really a standstill, he realised, come to think of it.  It was being fully thrown full-speed into reverse, drowning, being both held under the water by forces above and sucked into the whirlpool by forces underneath.  A week ago he had a wife, and a baby on the way, and now, John thinks, he is in the midst of losing the one and may still lose the other.

He stares at Sherlock, who had intuited somehow that he needed to breathe air outside the hospital, to get the slightest glimpse of life outside the hospital doors, out of the intensive care unit where his wife lay comatose, out of the NICU where his daughter lay under the warming lights.  Sherlock stared back, those insightful eyes seeming to take in everything, to get a sense that John was being pulled under the water, drowning but still trying to surface, tired of fighting but not ready to give up.  The Belstaff fanned out at the hem as Sherlock, in a seldom seen - and _most definitely_  not in public - gesture of solidarity, spread his arms and drew John against him.  From John's perspective, he couldn't see the moistness that had gathered in Sherlock's pale eyes - reflecting the pain he could see, sense, and feel in John's eyes.  Sherlock was reminded of something he'd heard for years: caring, he could hear Mycroft saying, was definitely not an advantage.  Not by a long shot.

++

The night of the accident, Mary had been on her way to a book club she'd been a long-standing part of, and John said he would take the tube so Mary could have the car.  On another night, as he'd done many times before, he would have driven her to and fro, but tonight he begged off because Sherlock had something on, case-related, in the other direction across town.  She'd fussed back a little, complaining that it seemed Sherlock was more important than their family and then threatened that those days were bloody well numbered, and he got ired up at that.  The argument had escalated in both volume and emotion, and finally Mary just kind of threw up her hands, mildly frustrated, and stalked off, but even the back of her head seemed angry as she left, the door frame rattling after she'd slammed it shut.  He'd caught the tube, met Sherlock in the park down the street and stood around watching Sherlock pick through the grass and consider cigarette butts he'd found at the scene in question.  From time to time, he would stare upward, deep in thought, considering possible twists or explanations, and so he missed early signs of the impending disaster.

There had been a charged moment there at the park, Lestrade and Anderson there on the periphery, Sherlock crouched down, John standing.  Had anyone been paying attention, they would have seen Lestrade on his phone and a devastated face and a frantically impatient gesture as he found another uniformed officer with a patrol car.  He'd gone first to Sherlock, spoken a few quick sentences in his ear, and they'd both walked with serious intent over to where John was standing.  John had been watching Sherlock with the attempt to predict where Sherlock may have been going with the details of the scene, trying to at least arrive in the same time zone with Sherlock's intuitive eye for facts.  His mind had come up with a creative link between a few of the things Sherlock had just been looking at, and he grinned, smiling, for a very brief and fleeting moment ready to share his observation.  Until he saw the faces looking at him.  There was a little ripple in the fragile fabric of his reality, and he could feel an alteration about to occur in the very ground under his feet and in the air he was breathing.  All thoughts halted abruptly as Lestrade spoke, "John."

"What is it?" his tone was already revealing on some level he'd already be dreading whatever came next.  He looked from Greg to Sherlock and back again, wondered oddly if Mrs. Hudson had suffered an accident, a stroke, a break-in.  His next thought was Mycroft.  He was holding his breath, eyes wide, limbs frozen as he waited.

"There's been an accident."  Greg spoke clearly and directly at John.  "Mary's been in an accident."  John's breath came hard and anything but reflexive, he could only do those two things - blink, and breathe.

A car pulled up behind where they were standing, close at hand.  The officer driving opened his door, stood there a few moments.  Lestrade nodded at the car.  "Randy will drive you both over to the hospital."

A hesitancy had already seized John's throat, tightening, and time passed oddly, the few seconds since Lestrade said his name having taken an eternity.  "It's bad," John said, unnecessarily.  He wanted to swallow, his dry mouth too dry to allow it.  "Oh god," he said quietly then.  

Sherlock had been standing there at John's side, and cleared his throat then, decisively taking John's arm and leading him toward the open panda car door.  "Yes," he said, sliding into the back seat behind his former flatmate.   Seeing Sherlock in an actual police car was when John knew that the injuries sustained were life-threatening.  "It's very bad." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story may start off with deep emotional angst, but better days are ahead. The writer in me loves John Watson far, _far_ too much to let him suffer too greatly. Better days, I assure, are most definitely coming.
> 
> I assure you there will be hearts and flowers (okay, maybe not literal ones) but for Johnlock-ers this is a good story and full of medical details for those who like them.
> 
> This idea was born out of the briefest speculation on Tumblr / Setlock that a traffic accident may have befallen the Watson's. I think that ship has sailed, pardon the pun, but this story is relentlessly demanding to be written.
> 
> Not beta'ed nor Brit-picked, and as always, subject to my last-minute edits, so please let me know if something has slipped by me.


	2. When the Time Comes

Mid-afternoon, Sherlock finds John in the waiting room, still waiting to be let back into the ICU where Mary is.  He'd been on his mobile down the hall, a quick exchange of texts with Mycroft.  John looks up quickly, seems disappointed that it is Sherlock and not someone to summon him back to Mary's room.

"I'm surprised you're still waiting."  He glances toward the locked door of the unit from within the empty room, and they leave unspoken that the delay could certainly indicate a problem.  "Everything's okay," Sherlock says with no grounds to base the statement on.  He can see the flurry of thoughts in John's tired face and sought to reassure.

"Bronch should be done by now, they said they'd come get me.  Get us."  John's eyes are still deeply etched in grief, but Sherlock thinks he looks perhaps a little less foggy, wonders if the organ donation focus has changed his outlook.  "I keep imagining the worst, from out here."

Sherlock wonders how much worse it can get, then realises it can certainly do so.  He pulls a package of biscuits from his pocket, hands it over without a word.  It triggered John's awareness of his low-level epigastric discomfort - not always hunger, more like painful nausea - that never goes away completely.

John holds it, his eyes distant and now lost obviously in thought.  "When she goes to the OR theatre, she won't be coming back here."

"True.  Technically," Sherlock says slowly, "she's already..."

"I know."  John's mind is still whirling, and he can no sooner believe he is having this discussion, these thoughts, and suddenly, he thinks of the unthinkable. "She'll go...  There's going to be no post-mortem.  Molly won't..."  He can't imagine, and then immediately wishes he could take back the statement.  

Sherlock knows he cannot say anything about Molly's role in the deception after the fall from Bart's, that there will be no miracle this time.  He agrees, however, that a post-mortem would be unnecessary.  "There's no reason for one, yeah."

John has glanced down at the snack in his hand, and for a moment Sherlock thinks he is staring at that, then realises he was not.  "I can't take off my ring."

Sherlock wonders at the tangential meanderings of John's mind, at the random firing of bizarre synapse pathways.  "You don't have to."

"No, it doesn't come off, it's too tight."  

Sherlock shrugs, "We'll get it, somehow, if you want.  When you want."  Sherlock realises his hand has come up to touch his own upper lip, remembering how he'd focused so intently and so obsessively on John's mustache that night in the restaurant.  He completely got it now, understands the tactic, how John's avoiding big issues, projecting, escaping.

"I guess I'll hold onto Mary's for the baby, when she's older."  He glances over at Sherlock.  "Or is that maudlin?"

 _Enormously_ , he doesn't say.  "One day at a time, John.  Stop thinking so much."

He nods, exhales, and leans his head back against the ugly wallpaper in the family waiting room.  A brief pause, then John seems to feel the need to speak, break the silence.  "There are some exciting phone calls going on right now."

Sherlock glances at the telly, which is mutedly playing an old black and white movie, trying to figure out what on earth John is referring to, then wondered if another visitor had just been given good news.  "What?" he asks.  "Did someone call you, or do you need me to call someone for you?"  He can make out the line of John's mobile in his pocket, but has no idea as to the remaining battery life.  John hasn't used it, far as he can tell, and other than for the occasional photo in the NICU, Sherlock hasn't seen it much.

"No.  The _waiting list_."  Sherlock is watching John, who is still and unmoving.

Understanding dawns.  "The organ recipients, _that_ waiting list.  Right," Sherlock agrees.

"Can you imagine what that would be like, 'come to the hospital, we have a heart, or a liver, for you'."  John swallows hard, and stares at his wedding ring.

Sherlock can think of nothing of any use to say and refuses to simply fill the oppressive empty space with even emptier words.

John is quiet for a moment, and Sherlock thinks he can hear John's heart pounding from a few feet away, can see the rapid pulse at his neck.  He stares at John's temple, wondering if he could see the temporal artery if he had the right angle.  John is wordless and still a few minutes longer, and Sherlock wonders if he will doze off again, as he's done from time to time there in the waiting room.  At night, the nurses offer him a pillow and blanket in the waiting room, but he wanders around between the unit, her room, the neonatal unit, and doesn't actually rest much.  And then John is speaking again, confessing quietly, "I'm afraid to give the baby a name, you know."

At that disclosure, Sherlock puts his hand on John's leg to assure he is fully awake.  John opens his eyes but otherwise does not move, stares up at the ceiling without blinking.  Sherlock is about to ask him to explain when the nurse shows up, tells John that he can come back in, apologises for it taking longer than expected, and that they are having trouble with her blood pressure.  The urgency in her voice is unmistakable, and she quickly disappears.  John heads through the door, and Sherlock moves to follow him, knowing now more than ever, John needs him as the final hours have started counting down.

The package of snacks are left behind on the chair, forgotten and unwanted.

Mary's room is focused people with intense activity, with supply wrappers and more poles and such cluttering the bedside.  Jenn, the nurse, sees them arrive and moves to cover Mary's extremities with the sheet, conceal the lines, monitors, wires, and the colourful assortment of bruises.  The abdominal dressing from the recent surgery shows through the thin gown over her, and John looks for a moment, the bulkiness of the bandages rounding but not nearly as protrusile as her gravid belly had been.  John recalls Mary's visceral almost irrational fear of needing a c-section, and he doesn't quite know how to feel about that now - sad that it happened, perhaps, but also relieved that Mary is unaware.  Relieved the baby is born, being tended in the nursery.  A respiratory therapist arrives, checking vent settings, and one of the other nurses is priming more IV tubing, starting another medication into one of the central lines coming out of the internal jugular vein of Mary's neck.  

Sherlock takes John's arm, knowing he usually prefers to drag a chair to the far side of the bed, sit out of the way holding her hand, but now there is no way that is going to be a possibility.  Too many people are working on her.  One of the doctors, an intensivist, is holding a printout of her most recent labwork while one of the nurses is verifying IV labels and checking IV pump rates to determine what adjustments still can and need to be made.  They stand opposite the foot of the bed, still inside the room, watching - John is watching Mary, Sherlock is watching John, the staff is watching the monitors, and as all this watching is going on, someone else comes to the doorway.

It is the transplant coordinator, who takes in the somewhat controlled chaos of the room and her eyes light on John.  She comes to stand near him, and Sherlock cannot help the shift his body tries to make - he wants to protectively stand between John and her, between John and everything that is threatening him right now.  "Doing okay, John?"  Her hand briefly contacts his forearm.  "This is a lot to take in.  Let me know if you have questions, yeah?"

He doesn't answer, and truthfully, there is no need.  John _gets_ it.  It is all written so clearly on his face as he takes in the lowering blood pressures despite the massive volumes of fluids they are infusing, and he watches again as the urinary catheter is emptied for several containers of urine so pale and dilute it looks like water.  Diabetes Insipidus. Rather than respond verbally, he shrugs with a helpless gesture of uncertainty.  His eyes take in the monitors, the arterial line, and the systolic blood pressures in the seventies now, and he swallows over his dry throat and looks away.

Sherlock, from the other side of John,  looks at the coordinator.  "How about from your end?  You're making progress?"  Giving John a flicker of hope, or even a distraction, he thinks, might be helpful.

She consults her mobile again, scrolls through a few screens, and nods without looking too enthusiastic, knowing that it was John's pain, striking a balance between the negative and positive.  "Yes.  Hearing back from the surgeons now.  Things are starting to match up."

The monitor alarms again with a lower blood pressure, and John watches Jenn increase the rate on the norepinephrine drip.  "We're maxed," she informs the physician at bedside.  "The albumin's about done, too."

The doctor consults with the transplant coordinator who is holding a set of standard order protocols.  "We can hang a unit of blood.  And I'll order the intranasal DDAVP in addition to the pitressin drip."  He shrugs, trying not to glance over at John and Sherlock, and John knows he is holding his tongue out of deference to their presence.  This is last ditch, a bit of deviation from standard protocol, but they are running low on options.

The coordinator comes back to them along the side wall, watching the team bring more supplies or more hands or more equipment to the room.  "Doing all the right things here," she said, and John turns his eyes quickly to look at Sherlock.

He hasn't shared all the details with him yet, but John is reminded that none of this would have happened if _he'd_ done the _right thing_ and driven Mary as she'd wanted.  "Better hurry up," he muttered.

Sherlock turns to John, quietly puzzled there right next to him.  "Are you in some sort of rush?"

"Losing organ perfusion, the longer her pressure's down."  He glanced at the urine bag.  "And she's been in DI for hours.  Cerebral edema, brain damage, osmotic diuresis from the mannitol the other day."  John gives snippets of information, and Sherlock understands the gist of most of it:  She is losing volume and they are having trouble replacing it, keeping it in the vascular space where it belongs.  The kidneys are unable to effectively balance the fluids or electrolytes, and this could all tank very quickly, Sherlock can tell, just based on the unspoken staff tension and the etched lines at John's brow.

"So that's the point of it all right now:  perfusion."  Sherlock states the bottom line as he understands it, and both John and the coordinator nod.

Over the next half hour or so, Mary's blood pressure nadirs, and then, thankfully, rises enough that the staff in attendance dwindles from six to two.  The urine output slows from litres per hour to several hundred millilitres, and there is a small relieved smile on Jenn's face as she cautiously updates John while Sherlock is busy on his mobile, although listening intently and his radar tuned to John's proximity.

There are voices at the door, and one of the anaesthesiologists arrives to evaluate Mary, the ventilator, and evaluate the monitoring that will have to be done when she is eventually moved to the OR theatre.  Very focused on his task, he doesn't speak to anyone other than Jenn, initially, and discusses the terrible OR schedule and the late shifts they are all going to be working.  Jenn doesn't let him get too far, interrupting, "Have you met Dr. Watson, her husband?"

There is a brief glimpse of apology in his face, and he stretches out an arm, "Dr. Connor. _Jim_ ," he clarifies.  "I'm going to be monitoring her anaesthesia later."  John shakes his hand in silence.  "I'm sorry for all this, for you.  I hear your daughter is in the NICU?"

Sherlock casually presses in a little closer, his throat clearing only loud enough for John to be aware that he is poised and ready, protective, ready to defend, intervene, or bloody _attack_ if necessary - all this is communicated in the slightest deep tone in his chest.  When John is still quiet, Sherlock speaks, "She's holding her own, yes." 

The anaesthesiologist looks between them, and the smile is small but genuine, "I'm glad to hear that.  You know," he begins, leaning at the edge of the counter, calmly and a bit uncomfortably glancing at Mary then at John, "thank you for all this, by the way.  It's a noble thing."  Sherlock can tell that someone in the man's immediate family has been an organ recipient, and while he would like to tell John the story, he will not.  He wisely, in no way will change focus from the immediacy of the current situation, that this is about John and not about his own personal experience.  Sherlock is pleased with his own insight and that of the provider's.

"Mary wanted it," Sherlock said, emphasising her name just enough that they all heard the verbal reminder that the patient in the bed has a name, a history, and a husband with her.  "They both do."  And with that caution, Sherlock has included John on the altruism of the gesture.  He touches John's sleeve again, "Are you ready for a break, stretch for a bit?"

Jenn glances around, taking in the full vision of the room, evaluating the monitoring, the patient, the therapies, and nods at John, "It's probably a good time, if you do.  We're waiting to hear on confirmation and a time, that everything's a go."

"I don't want... " John begins, stops.  Glancing at the form in the bed, motionless save the rise and fall as the ventilator delivers the controlled breaths, he can almost already feel the connection between them severing, unraveling, tiny strands of a thin-stretched rope snapping as it will soon be completely separated.  It is unthinkable where he stands now, and he envies Mary's unawareness.  Her pain, he thinks, is over while his is mounting.  Distantly, he is yearning to go visit the baby in the nursery, sit in the rocker with the baby against him and never, ever, _ever_ let go of her.

Jenn's voice brings him back from his musings.  "You won't miss anything.  I'll send someone.  And typically, we hear a bit in advance when everything's scheduled."

"Come, John."  Sherlock hadn't let go of John's sleeve, and begins leading him to the doorway.  "We'll be in the waiting room," he says to Jenn, who nods.

At the end of the ICU hallway, just as the room would have disappeared from sight, John rounds the corner and stops.  It is just them in the hall, and John is fairly certain he is going to be sick, nausea clenching at his throat and his stomach.  "How can I do this?  I can't..." and his voice trails off.  He feels like his knees might buckle, moves to stand at the tinted windows that overlook the medical office building and parking lot, leans hard on his fingers resting on the sill.  "I don't think I can leave her right now."  He glances over at Sherlock, who for all the sleep he hasn't been getting either, still looks rather put together.  His pale eyes are simply trying to read John, assess what he needs.  Like Sherlock's physical presence, the gaze is just another thing that is _there_ for John, waiting and ready to help.  John clings to the dependability in whatever form he can.

A stranger approaches, a young man of medium build.  "I'm looking for John Watson.  I'm from the chaplain's office."

John holds up a tired hand, halting anything further he wanted to say.  "Listen, I appreciate it, but not now.  I just...   _Please_."  His eyes flick pleadingly to Sherlock, although under normal circumstances, John would never willingly put Sherlock and a man of the cloth in close proximity - Sherlock's hard facts and the church's faith principles had never meshed all that well, John knew.

Again, Sherlock inserts his body partway between John and this ... interloper, despite being well-meaning, Sherlock wants him gone.  He speaks low, "Look, I know you were here the other day, spoke a few words in the room over Mary.  It was fine, then.  But she's beyond that now.  If you want to pray for anyone, let it be for the transplant surgeons who are on their way in."  He uses the sentence to facilitate moving John from the hallway, and firmly places a hand at his back while they relocate to the waiting room.

Once they are there, Sherlock closes the door, caring not a whit that it is not a private waiting room or that other patients' families may come in.  At the moment it is indeed empty, therefore _theirs_ , and he needs to know what John wants now, how to proceed from here.  For as much as he has usurped many of the decisions, this one is too big for him alone.

"John, listen to me," he says, perching on a chair and expecting - and finding - that John will do the same.  "Do you want to be there when they take her from the room?"  The question catches John off guard, and Sherlock watches and waits while John tries to find some sense of how to answer.

Chewing on a lip, and then the cuticle of his thumb, he finally shakes his head and says, "No, I don't want to watch that."

Sherlock nods, having suspected that would be John's inclination.  "Fine.  I'll make sure you get a minute alone to say goodbye when," and they both cringe a bit at the knowledge that time is short, and he amends, " _before_  that time comes."  The look about John's eyes is nothing less than full stop fear, of what this road ahead of them is, of what is being asked of _him_.  "And then you and I will walk out together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John will be all right. I think I'm going to send him to the nursery to hold that baby and rock her until he feels better.
> 
> Sherlock will also be all right. I think he would like to go the nursery, too. We all know who he wants in his arms.


	3. A Chance to Say Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the ICU to the OR to the NICU, the boys finally end up at Baker Street.
> 
> There is some description of the finality of an end-of-life issue. If this may be triggering for you, please proceed with caution. It is not graphic, simply difficult and honest.

It ends up not being Jenn who comes to the waiting room, but the transplant coordinator who knocks on the closed door and tentatively says hello as she opens it.

John's eyes dilate slightly and Sherlock is watching his drawn face as it loses a bit of colour when he puts it all together, knows exactly why she is there and the reason for the tenderness about her eyes and the smallest sad smile at John.  "Everything's set.  They'll be ready for Mary within an hour."  Both John and Sherlock are standing, but she sits down.  "Is there anything else you need answered right now?"

"No postmortem.  There's no need."  John has been trying, really, not to think of all that has been inflicted on Mary's body starting with the accident, the c-section, and now this - the removal of healthy functioning organs from a body who no longer needs them to be placed into other bodies who need them desperately.  The thought of anything additional seems cruelly unnecessary.  

"Of course."

"Her rings stay on until it's ... done."

"That's fine, Jenn can tape them, no problem, John."  She is very focused, respectfully paying attention, somehow, Sherlock sees, managing to convey that John's wishes are the utmost priority here.

"And I don't want any contact with the recipients."  It had been discussed, that occasionally either party may feel the need, and that of course, each individual can choose how much, if any, communication ever occurs.

She sighs, this being something they'd gone over, but she begins again, "There is never direct contact, it's all through our office.  There are often some letters from the recipients, but not always."  She had already told John about them, that some families choose to write, many don't, but that it is entirely up to him.  John nods and wishes, not for the first time, that this was simply a nightmare and that he would wake up, _anytime now_.  "Jenn said you can come back in whenever you're ready."  Did not being ready change anything, John wonders?

John has a terrible time meeting her eyes, but manages to, just briefly, before staring unseeing at the floor.  "Thanks, you know.  For your ..."

She rises, then, touches John's arm, and says quietly, "Thank _you_.  I get pretty busy from here on, but there will be someone here in the building, letting you know when everything's completed."

John nods, and Sherlock hands over a business card.  "Use this number, then, please.  It is my mobile, directly."

She stands, frees up her hands, and comes forward to embrace first Sherlock casually, then her arms wrap around John.  Sherlock watches John's back for the tremulous shake, the effort he expends trying to maintain control.  Her hands frame his face, just barely, a casual touch but one deliberately intentional that he is focused only on her and her words.  "John, I'm sorry for your loss."  Nothing further is said, no mention of the events that are looming, simply a heartfelt condolence and acknowledgement of Mary's death.  A few steps, a regathering of supplies, and she pauses at the door a final time.

Had John been looking, he would have seen the glances exchanged, one of appreciative gratitude and the other of territorial protection and a fierce loyalty.  Soon the room is empty, and John and Sherlock find themselves quite soon left alone again.  There is a few minutes where the silence is all right, and then it's not.

"I can't..." John begins.

"Actually, you can."  The helpless shrug also implies that he will, and that he  _must_.

"I don't want to then," he says, then listens to himself, gives himself a literal growl of frustration, summons some internal reserve, the courage he has.  "I can't help, Sherlock," he begins, knowing his fatigue and stress levels have drastically lowered or removed his typical verbal filters, "but wonder if this is what it might have felt like, on the roof, right before you jumped."

The words that Sherlock doesn't say are clearly displayed on his face, the hurt, the fear, the resolve, the grim acceptance.  The pain he'd inflicted on John had been forgiven but not forgotten.  He chooses to keep quiet, knowing the focus is not on surviving the past, but on surviving the next minutes and hours in front of John.  In front of _them_.

"Knowing it has to be done," he continues, "doesn't make it any easier."

There is some hallway traffic, noise approaching, and John lifts his chin subtly.  

"Ready?" Sherlock asks, rhetorically, as he is already leading John back to the doorway.

"God no," John says, drawing a sharp look and then they both are making a face and shaking their heads at the piercing honesty.  "But that doesn't change anything, does it?"

Sherlock's long arm wraps around John's shoulders, a firm sideways hug and show of support, as they enter the unit.

The staff is sort of collectively holding their breath as John and Sherlock round the corner into the bay.  The coordinator is there, looking bright eyed and slightly harried, her mobile and clipboard in one hand.  She is wearing OR scrubs now, however, and John knows that she will be near the OR suite, working on details right up until the actual arrangements are made, and the hand-offs in specially marked coolers occur...  John stops that line of thought immediately as he slows his steps.  Mary looks more swollen every time he sees her, lying motionless and pale.  There isn't a piece of her that is not lined, wired, monitored, or transduced.

Sherlock addresses the nurse and one of the anaesthesiologists.  "John would like a moment, please.   _Alone_."  His tone makes it clear that they are not asking permission. 

The staff seems mildly surprised and a little bit resistant initially, but the transplant coordinator immediately speaks, "Good idea, we'll give you a few minutes, then, Dr. Watson."

Jenn waits until she is the last to leave, and stands close to John a moment.  "If you want, John, I can slide her over a little, you can ..." she gestures at the bed, "get in next to her.  We can work around the lines, it's very do-able..."

John is already shaking his head in the negative, and she stops speaking.  Her own eyes are moist, and she blinks very rapidly, then smiles a sad smile, and he clarifies, "No, but thank you."

"John, it's been..." Jenn takes a quick breath, "an honour to take care of her, of you.  I'm so sorry."  There is a quick embrace, but John just wants to fast forward time.  Drawing this out even a few seconds longer is a twisting of the dull knife in a salted wound.  "I traced her hands, earlier," she says, her voice breaking and wobbly, pulling out thin pieces of coloured foam connected with a length of yarn.  "One set for you, and one for your daughter.  You won't always have Mary's hug, but this is a way to keep it, her hug I mean, with you."  Jenn holds one hand in each of her own, stretches them out just enough to offer another brief hug, her hands holding Mary's hands, encircling behind his shoulders.  Just as quickly, she places the cutouts in his hand, leaves the room.

The room is soon empty, and Sherlock slides the glass paneled door closed to keep the noise out and pulls the curtain back just a bit so that John isn't distracted by all the faces, noise, and escalating activity in the hallway.

He glances down at the tracings in greens and blues, they are marked with her name and the date, the word 'love' and 'hugs'.  The slightly quirky bend of Mary's right pinkie finger has been captured, and while he greatly appreciates the gesture, he hands them to Sherlock, who pockets them.

"Do you want me to step out?  If you need to say ... just the two of you?" he asks.

"No."  He stands awkwardly, hands at his hips and then with his arms folded.  "She isn't here, and... "  He closes his mouth, then just says again, "No."

Sherlock takes a step toward the head of the bed, then, and he looks at John then back at all the monitors, his hand coming up to rub at his jaw.  "Well, is it all right if I say something?"  Surprised, John turns a very furrowed, puzzled look at him, then shrugs as if giving permission.  "I said once, to the both of you, that I would always be there for you.  I haven't forgotten.  And I just wanted to promise, Mary," and the name comes out awkwardly quiet and a little broken, "that I will take care of John for you.  I said I would likely never make another vow, but here I am again."  A quick exhale of air emits from Sherlock's nose, and John realises that these words, coming from Sherlock, are in truth only meant for him alone.  John's eyes are wide, and he reminds himself to breathe.  This is Sherlock as he'd never seen him, this serious, gentle, tender, and staunchly committed.  "And your daughter, too, of course.  I will see to her as well."  Sherlock had picked up one of Mary's swollen hands, brushes his thumb over her fingers.  John wonders oddly if he is thinking that he's holding the hand that pulled the trigger so long ago.  The rings, he sees, have already been taped in place.

Sherlock turns to John, then, looks him with all seriousness in the eyes, and nods.  "Here we go, yeah?"

John cannot stop the magnetic pull that drew him up against Sherlock and into his arms there in the room.  It is an unstoppable force of nature and a show of belonging and compassion.  Sherlock tucks his chin down over John's silvery-blond hair, inhales.  His hand slides up just a bit under John's angled jaw, tips his face, and there is the briefest brush of lips, a press of friendship and caring.  It was so light and quick that in the moment, John thought perhaps it didn't happen.  

"Sorry," Sherlock whispers, " _timing,_ " and he backs off to a comfortable distance.  And then John is aware of the complete tear in the veil, the tilt on the axis, tectonic plates shifting, that everything is now different.  He gives a gentle squeeze to Sherlock's arm, an understanding acceptance and of the need to move on.

"What you just said," John says, blowing through unsteady lips, and lets the small exhaling smile finish his sentence.  Sherlock shrugs a bit in return, winks, smiles gently.  John squares his shoulders, knowing time is short and they need to leave the room, leave Mary's care, her gift, her donation, to those who were even now readying an amazing process, a complicated coordination of many teams, patients, and facilities in the region.  Downstream, there were others gathering, waiting, all hinging on this moment moving forward.  It is the first domino to be tipped over and will, by the end of the process, have felled the entire table.

Sherlock is at his side, not quite touching, but certainly with a palpable presence.  "I meant every word."  They are not physically touching any longer, but the connection feels strong, binding through words and promises and years of experience with each other - not always easy but trusting now.  There is a long moment, Sherlock's eyes steadily drinking in John's, and then there is an engagement of resolve.  Sherlock can see, sense, that John is as resolute as he can be, from the squaring of his shoulders to the set of his jaw.  He lifts an eyebrow in question.

John knows this moment is his to call, to dictate, to dismiss. "It's time."  He glances at the bed, swallows the regret that threatens to erupt, blinks and looks away.  Nodding with a slight deep breath, John follows him to the doorway.  Jenn, some of the OR staff are there, and the coordinator.  John clears his throat as the hush in the crowd seems expectant, tentative, not sure of John's response.  "Thank you all.  You've been won--"  He clears his throat, summons an inner courage, "wonderful," but the word is a whisper, and he wants to say a few more words about how the support during this nightmare has been noticed.  Sherlock, from his place at John's elbow, is silent, but lets the slightest lean of John's body brush up against him.  It was more of that connection, more of the appreciative gratitude for his presence.  Neither of them were alone at the moment.  "Mary would have ..." he'd intended on simply conveying she would have wanted all of this, but the words failed, his throat was closing, and he halted right there, cast a quick, desperate glance to Sherlock.

"Mary would want to say thank you, too.  Mary and John, both, are grateful for your exceptional care."  He finishes simply, and uses the momentum of the sentence to touch John's back lightly, manoeuvering past the nurses station.  They keep moving, down the hall, through the double-doored exit, and when John's steps hesitate at the ICU waiting room where he's so often sought solace or been banished briefly into, Sherlock utters with quiet assertiveness, "Not here."  They pass it, walk purposefully down the hall, and they find a small alcoved waiting room with a big window overlooking non-descript buildings, a car-park, and a dirty sidewalk.

John sinks into a chair, his posture atrocious, and he rubs a tired hand over his even more tired eyes.  "I've always hated the word widower."

"I hardly think anyone will address you that way."  He considers adding 'widower Watson' on the end and thinks that it is likely too soon.  Although John's sense of humour, eventually, will find that amusing, and he files that away for use when John needs it.  "What you said outside her room, John, very nice."

"Yeah, well, what you said inside..."

Sherlock watches the flush creep up John's neck. _Interesting_.  It had been an impulsive gamble, something that just sort of happened.  But that colouring, there was something behind that, he sees. 

"Okay."  Sherlock seems to think John might have more to say, and waits.  There was hesitation, uncertainty about which direction to move, what topics are left, the senseless reiteration of what was happening that very moment to Mary.  Finally, he informed John, "We'll go over to the neonatal unit when you're ready."

"All right."  Sherlock considers there is only one unit for John now, thought perhaps a night out of the hospital might be a worthy endeavor, sets the idea aside for the moment.

On the way over, John thanks Sherlock for finishing his sentence, again, outside of Mary's ICU bay room when his own words failed.  "Remind me to send flowers or food or something to the nurses station, yeah?"

Sherlock grunts at that, knowing John has enough to concern himself with of far more importance than that.  "I'm asking Mycroft to take care of it."  His mobile appears, a text is sent, and Sherlock gestures with an arm down the hallway toward their destination.  They walk in silence; John rings for access to the NICU.

Baby Watson is not the only baby in the critical area now, but John quickly gauges the newest baby as doing very well, all set to thrive, based on the lack of tubes and monitors compared to the baby in the bassinet labeled Watson.  And the innate physician "eye-test" which John, like most docs, develops over time, just by looking, they can get a feel for how sick the patient is, how much they are at risk to decompensate, how concerned they as the doc should be for the patient.  One of the nurses, he notices, has added stickers to the name card, positive sparkling sayings like "growing" and "good work" and a princess crown overtop her surname.  

She lay on her back in the incubator, under the warming lights, a folded blanket surrounding her little body, tucking her into a snuggling nest for warmth and the sense of being secure and cuddled.  Her little belly above the tiny preemie nappy seems more full and rounded, and when he reaches out a finger to tentatively rub it, he finds just the slightest abdominal distention which hadn't been there earlier.  Her respiratory rate is higher than previously, at almost sixty now, and her pulse oximetry reading has drifted down into the lower nineties from where she'd been before.  She was working harder to breathe, in the very minutest ways visible to a clinical eye that knew to look.  He wasn't sure, if it were up to him, that baby Watson would pass the "eye-test" at the moment, and glanced around to see one of the nurses standing, watching.

"Are you holding her again now?" Sherlock asks as he approaches, having scrubbed after John had finished.

He is already shaking his head.  "She's not stable enough," John says to him, and turns his head to find one of the NICU nurses had joined them.

"What do you mean?"  Sherlock says, adding, "She looks the same."

"She's not."  He turns to the nurse.  "What's going on?"

The nurse nods at John's assessment, his question.  "The neonatologist has been by a few times already.  The plan so far, is we're going to wait a few hours, give her a little more time, if she doesn't turn around, get an xray and a blood gas, see what's going on, if anything is different."

"Aspiration pneumonia?" he says quietly, and for all the times he's seen, diagnosed, and treated pneumonia, it was downright frightening him now. These tiny little preemie lungs, immature, already working earlier and harder than intended, now may have infectious processes and debris clogging up her fragile airways.  John studies her again, his eyes seeing but not seeing, thinking that she was already having difficulties, and that another few hours and she had the potential to be in real trouble.

The nurse turns to the computer screen, logs in, to show John the morning bloodwork from so many hours ago, and clicks on the weights.  He sees the numbers but they don't process well, but he certainly ascertains that no progress is being made yet.  "We were going to call you," she begins, "when we first started getting concerned about her breathing."  She pauses, glancing quickly between the men, "I'm sorry for the rest of your day, Dr. Watson.  If there had been something more concrete, of course, you would have been notified right away."

John nods in understanding as he watches the rapid belly breathing his daughter is doing, the roundness over the nappy.  "I guess feedings are out today."

Nodding, she agrees, "Too much energy expended to bottlefeed."  The feeding tube will spare her, he knows, from the work of sucking and swallowing - she is working hard just _breathing_.

John perches in one of the chairs by the isolette, alternating his gaze between the monitor bank and the baby.  Sherlock, on the other hand, can't seem to sit still.  He paces, he stands, he tries more chairs, he watches the baby, then watches John, who finally tells him, "You don't have to stay, you know."

"I'm not leaving you."

There is the slightest smirk on John's face as he says, "I'll probably survive a little in here with her, if you want to step out."  He feels a few twinges of pain across his ribs, his belly, wonders how the harvest is progressing.  The baby kicks out a leg, bats a hand up toward her face, dislodging the oxygen.  Her eyes open, and unfocused newborn eyes rove a bit, settle in his direction as John gingerly guides the oxygen back where it belongs.  There is a facial expression of displeasure as he seats the small tubings in her even tinier nose, and he can't help but catch his own breath.  To his daughter, he chuckles, admonishing quietly, "Now don't you start on me, too.  You're too young to be making me feel guilty, and you need this."  John feels Sherlock's eyes riveted on him, too, and he looks up to see fond admiration staring back.  "What?"

The spell is broken, and Sherlock looks away.  John watches until Sherlock grows uncomfortable, knows he's waiting for an answer.  "You're going to be a great dad."

"I seem to recall you saying that you'd given... plenty of practice."  His mouth sticks on the pronoun, omits it.  There isn't really the unuttered 'us' anymore, but he doesn't comment on it.  John remembers vividly what followed, whispers it again, "and you are most definitely very needed now."  The monitor alarms, just the briefest few seconds without oxygen and her levels have plummeted.  Even though he'd replaced the oxygen right away, her lack of reserve does not tolerate it.  John stands erect, takes a step back while the nurse comes to stand with them, just watching and keeping vigil.  It takes a long time, but her oximetry readings rise just enough for further testing to be avoided for the moment anyway.

The neonatalogist on for the day, one John hasn't met yet, swings back in to the NICU making rounds, discusses the gravity of the situation with John and Sherlock, who fortunately did finally calm down a bit.  "These little fighters, they do well initially, sometimes a few days, sometimes a few weeks, we have this honeymoon period.  She may be moving out of that."  John is nodding, knowing from the beginning that her low birthweight and gestational age were risky and predisposed her to a few rocky days.  "We wait.  I may put her on CPAP overnight.  Her bilirubin was a bit high this morning, we'll try some free water and the bili-lights again overnight.  Need to fatten the princess up a bit, maybe we'll feed you some ice cream," he says sweetly to the baby, "would you like that, young lady?"  He stands, then rubs his big hands over the baby's fontanels for hydration status, lightly assessing abdominal distention, muscle tone.  "Keep up the good work," he says as if addressing an adult, and John finds it charming, the bedside manner.  "I understand your wife is over in the ICU.  How are things today?" he says to John.  Obviously not all the details had been clarified in the hand off to this provider.  The nurse stood, unable to rescue any of them, a quiet look of surprise on her face at the misspeak of the doctor.

John takes a deep breath.  "She's gone," he says quietly.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't know," he says.  "Let's hope the baby has a good night tonight, then.  I'll try to avoid intubation, but if she needs it, so be it."  The awkward moment is simply there, and nothing is changeable anyway.  "Listen, head home if you want.  There's not much to do here.  I'm on all night, here in the building of course, and you can call in if you want an update.  We will call you if there's any change."  He offers a brief embrace to John, seeming sincerely to convey his sympathy.  "I will be keeping an eye on your daughter, rest assured."

Sherlock gets engrossed on something on his mobile while John simply sits, watches.  They switch the baby over to CPAP, which delivers much more oxygen at a higher concentration and offers gentle, positive pressure support to her fragile airways.  Her breathing does seem to settle a little, but her level does not rise as John had been hoping.  He vacillates between sitting, watching, bringing a finger up to touch her frail skin, and staring off in the distance lost in thought.

Even though Sherlock is on his mobile, he remains well aware that John is glancing over occasionally, then more frequently, expectantly.  He is, of course, wondering if he'd received any update, if there had been notification from the OR.

"I haven't heard yet."

"I know."

"Are you ready to leave?"

"How can I leave?" he whispers.  "I can't go to the flat. _I can't_."  John's voice is mildly quivering and the nausea is back, thinking about leaving the building.

"You don't have to."

"Baker Street, then?"  John's voice was fraught with anxiety, and he sees Sherlock swallow hard.  "Please?"

"Of course."

They are just to the door of the unit, leaving the nursery, when Sherlock's mobile rings, an unknown number.  The caller identifies himself as with the NHS Blood and Transplant looking for John Watson.  He holds the phone between them, and they bring their ears close to the device.  John says in a very tight voice, "This is John Watson."  It is the coordinator, updating them that all is finished and everything went very well.  Sherlock thanks the caller for the information, disconnects.  He glances over at John, whose face is pale, his lips tight, his eyes showing every nuance of pain and sorrow.  He is standing at the interior window of the neonatal unit, looking back at the baby, blinks a few times.  The baby's monitor is alarming again.  His thumb, Sherlock sees, is fiddling with his wedding ring.  The nurse arrives bedside, silences the alarm, adjusts the CPAP, and speaks a few words that they can't hear and that the baby can't understand anyway.  "I'm all she has left now, aren't I?"  The whisper lingers and sadness falls over both of them.  Sherlock takes John's elbow, let's the silence reign.  There are no worthwhile words right now, anyway.

++

They leave the NICU, are buzzed out into the hallway, and John habitually, instinctively, without thought, begins to turn left as if heading toward the ICU.

"John."  Sherlock's voice is broken, apologetic, and he wishes he hadn't the need to utter John's name.

John's voice is flat. "What?" And when he turns to see Sherlock's face, he knows immediately of his blunder, crumples at his steps, at the fact that he'd forgotten something so blatantly obvious.  There is nothing for him now in the ICU any longer.

"It's okay.  Habit."  Sherlock nods, choosing not to say anything further, and he starts walking toward the stairwell that will deliver them to street level.  Once on the kerb, he glances over his shoulder, waiting for John to catch up.  "We're walking."

John doesn't protest, simply sighs and follows.  It's a twenty minute walk, and John is fatigued only a few minutes into the distance.  "Slow up," he finally chides.  "Your bloody long legs..."

"The walk will do you good."

"Shut the fuck up," John grunts at him, snapping in anger and helplessness.  He lets Sherlock get a few metres ahead, then decides he's had bloody enough.  There is a bench along one of the store fronts, and he struts to it, sits down, looking intentionally the opposite direction from his control-freak former flatmate.  He can bloody wait for him at Baker Street, John didn't care a whit.

Sherlock stops, knowing where John is immediately, and comes to join him on the bench.

"I'm going to lose them both, aren't I?"  There is an angry clench of John's jaw, and a groan, deep and feral and borne-by-pain, emits from John's throat.  "I should have driven her.  She wanted me to, did I tell you that?  To book club at the mall cafe, where they meet.  This would never have happened."

Sherlock stares, unsure of what and how much to say.  He and Greg had not discussed the timing of when to let John in on what the investigation had begun to show.  "John," he says quietly, and their eyes lock.

"Oh, god.  Now what?  What aren't you telling me?"

It was uncanny that for all Sherlock could hide things from many people, there were times that John could still see through him, call him on a falsehood.  He'd called him out on the drugs when there'd been a lapse, knew when he'd been smoking, identified when Sherlock had been up to something not permitted within Mrs. Hudson's flat rules, could tell when he'd claimed he hadn't eaten but John ended up finding takeaway containers hidden in the trash.  "I can see if Lestrade can come talk to you."

"God, no.  Not waiting."  A hiccuping gulp shakes John's shoulders, then, and rattles in his chest. _"Now."_  He can't summon anything remotely resembling the military authoritativeness that did occasionally elicit compliance, and knows Sherlock is going to win this battle eventually.

"I'll tell you when we get ... home."

"No.  Jesus Christ, I've just...   _Now_."  He can feel the surge of emotion escalating, and he takes a great inhale trying to calm his agitation.  "Sherlock, swear to god, _tell me_."  When he could see Sherlock clench his jaw again, his lips tightly together, John can feel nausea and heartburn that could light up the south side of the city, burning and churning.  

"John."  Sherlock wouldn't look at him.  "When we get home.  Please."

"Fuck you."  He speaks slowly, deliberately, each word emphasised.  Sherlock's eyes cut immediately to John at the comment, at the usual meaning of the phrase.  He lets his eyes drop to John's lips, briefly, and the comment seems to take on new life.

An eye narrows at John's comment, and Sherlock leans a little closer.  "Not until we get home."  It is a growl and a threat and a promise.

"To what specifically are you referring, telling me, or ..."  John raises an eyebrow suggestively, then reaches out, grabs the front of Sherlock's coat, shirt, collar, whatever his hands find, and he pulls their faces together.  The kiss started out exactly as John intended, mean and rough and a dominant taking without care.  His tongue comes out, forcing its way into Sherlock's mouth, his teeth scraping and pressing.  The kiss is by far aggressive and heated and an indication that a shag will be a power struggle, a battle of wills between two strong, assertive men.  

He pulls away, both of their lips swollen, chests heaving, breath mingling.  John is struck by what just happened, and he gulps an audible 'sorry'.  He lets go of Sherlock's shirt, smoothing the crumpled fabrics flush again, and he can feel his eyes moisten.  His throat is thick and he leans forward over his knees his hands over his face, elbows on his knees.  "Oh, god," he breathes, "I'm so sorry."

Sherlock has briefly been stunned into statuesque catatonia, but his mind whirls furiously trying to determine how best to proceed.  "John."

"No, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean, _cor_!"  He runs his hands through his hair, stands up, unable to sit in Sherlock's proximity any longer.  "Jesus, don't hate me."

Worrying that John may run off, Sherlock revives, stands too, offers a hand to John.  "No."  John stares, and Sherlock entreaties him with everything he can safely convey with his face, his eyes.  "It's fine."

"No it's really not."

"Take a bloody breath.  Relax, we'll sort this in a minute."  He draws his mobile, orders take away from the place across the street that they will pick up on the way past.  He calls Lestrade, leaves a voice message that his presence is requested at Baker Street but it is non-emergent.  Confident that John will follow, he begins walking at a purposeful pace toward Baker Street again.  "Now just stop it."

They walk in silence, none of it comfortable, and Sherlock pays for dinner, hands the bag to John.  Baker Street is kind of a mess, but it is a welcoming mess to John's view.  They sit on the floor, the carryout on the coffee table, and John is suddenly exhausted.  He wants to lay on the couch, close his eyes, and sleep for a week.  Fatigue settles over his shoulders, oppressive and inescapable.  Even keeping his eyes open is proving taxing.

"Eat something first, please?  You'll sleep better, and you need it.  You can't keep running on empty."

Vaguely John hears all the times he'd fussed at _Sherlock_ for the same reason.  All John feels like he can do is stare at Sherlock and try to come up with a reason he shouldn't just lose it, pitch a fit, carry on, throw a punch - and the only reason he can come up with is that he has no energy for any of it.  He takes three big bites, then hoists his frame up onto the couch, and closes his eyes.

Sherlock taps at John's shoes, says, "Kick those off," and he tucks a blanket up over John, letting the weight of the blanket be a settling force over him.  He does not argue about kipping on the couch.  John places a hand over his breast pocket, then trouser pockets, searching until Sherlock says, "I have and am holding your mobile.  It's on, volume's up loud, along with mine."  John sort of opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock raises one eyebrow in a displeased expression.  "I will summon you.  You," he says rather sternly, "are to sleep."

"Tell Lestrade not to bother."  John is craving the mind numbing escape of slumber.  Sherlock just waits.  "Coming over, I mean.  Not tonight."

"All right."  Sherlock sits, looks back at John, decides to fess up.  "It was a bogus voicemail anyway."

John's eyes are closed as he mutters, "God, you're the biggest wanker I know."

Sherlock putters around the flat, binning the empty takeaway box, refrigerating the rest, putting on pyjamas.  He returns to the living room, drawn inexorably and in truth not even bothering trying to resist.  He sits down opposite John, where his face is finally relaxed although there is still a furrow between his brows, a sign of the distress of the day that he cannot shake even in slumber.  Cautiously, he slides his fingers lightly into John's light blonde silvery hair, barely disturbing the follicles but savouring the feeling of _John_ between his fingers.  There is a bit of stubble on John's jaw, of course, and the back of his fingers finds it coarsely appealing, sliding down under his chin, just a feather of a touch.  He hesitates when there is a sharper intake of breath, as John is somehow aware of being touched, but when John relaxes he lets his meanderings continue - carotid artery, hyoid bone, clavicle.  He returns, however, to the angle of John's mandible and toward his ear, growing braver as John does not respond.

John's breathing remains even and slow, as Sherlock lets his hand settle on John's neck, then back up toward his hair.  John just slightly angles his face into the touch, as if an animal turning into the fond head-scratch, or a small child seeking to hide his face, prolonging the contact.  Sherlock feels the smile he can't help start, the sensations very pleasant.  And then, eyes still closed, John speaks.  "That's nice, Sherlock, but not tonight," he says low, in a gravelly sultry voice.  "Been a bad day, y'no?"

Sherlock feels the twinges of guilt at being caught, then decides he doesn't care - John didn't protest, it was actually just the timing he didn't appreciate.  Bending down, he presses a kiss to John's temple, carries both mobiles into his bedroom, leaving the door wide open, and climbs into his own cool-sheeted bed.

++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing more sobering than moving a patient over in a hospital bed for a family member to slide in next to them "one last time," and while it is scary with all the tubes and lines, it is completely worth it for the family member who wants that tactile closeness. I have facilitated a mom snuggle with her brain dead daughter, a wife slide in with her husband, a domestic partner get that last hug, and one time, a final cuddle from a family pet. There are usually no dry eyes for any who take in the tenderness of that moment. Many, however, like John, choose not to, and either option is completely okay.
> 
> The tracings of the hands are also something the hospital in which I work, does regularly. They have been used as Christmas tree decorations, accessories to memorial picture frames, or simply as a memento. A pair hangs in a pub down the street from my house over a wall-hanging, from a patient who has passed on, who really loved the location.
> 
> ++
> 
> If a typo sneaked by me, please let me know. A/N: I just caught a whole bunch! Argh, but they are fixed.
> 
> ++
> 
> Brighter days are ahead. John has just about suffered enough. Next chapter, an interesting discussion with Greg.


	4. Be Sure The Truth...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... will both find you out, and set you free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They visit the nursery - after the baby has a rough night.
> 
> John gives the baby a name.
> 
> Lestrade talks with John, then Sherlock fills in the gaps.
> 
> Let's bring out all the king's horses and all the king's men... because there might be pieces involved.
> 
> I wonder if we can collectively convince Sherlock to hold that baby?

Sherlock is actually having a rather pleasant and amusing dream about one of his two thriving hives at his retirement country estate when one of the bees comes closer, buzzing intermittently, dive-bombing his ear, with an important message.  The morse code interpretation is almost completed when his eye snaps open to realise John's mobile is vibrating on the nightstand next to him.  He snatches it, answers, noting the caller ID of course is the hospital.

"Hi, it's the hospital, looking for John Watson?"  The caller doesn't particularly wait for acknowledgement so Sherlock doesn't interrupt him.  "We met earlier, your daughter's neonatologist."

"What's happening?"  Obviously, Sherlock knows they aren't calling at - he glances at the time - three am with _good_ news.  "I can wake John, if needed, I'm his friend."

"Oh, you were here with him earlier.  You're rather tall, right, we met."  Sherlock grunts in the affirmative, although tall is not necessarily his first choice of descriptive adjectives (genius or brilliant more to his liking).  "Looks like the pneumonia is progressing, her saturations were low, respirations much more labored.  I already placed an endotracheal tube, the breathing tube, and she's looking much better on mechanical ventilation now."

Sherlock keeps his voice low, thinking that sparing John more bad news is now impossible, but he doesn't want him to overhear until he's ready. "Is she still unstable?"  Sherlock was loathe to wake John but would do it immediately if they were needed bedside.

"Right now, she's actually better, vital signs good, working less hard to breathe.  Added an antibiotic.  She's stable."  There are a few alarms in the background, the soft voices of co-workers, and the doctor apparently moves to a place of lesser background noise.  "I told him I would let him know."

Sherlock glances down the hall, and wonders if John is actually asleep.  "Should we come over immediately?"

There is an exhale followed by what Sherlock imagines is the assessment of the baby's monitor and appearance again.  "Maybe when he wakes.  If there's any indication, _any indication at all_ that I think things are turning worse, I will call you back immediately."

"I can have him there in under ten minutes."  

"Not necessary at this time, if he's asleep.  Yesterday must've been terrible for him."

Sherlock agrees, then asks, "What time does your shift end?  He will want the details from you, of that I am certain."

"Eight."

"I'll have him there before that, then."

"All right, and again, any changes, you'll be notified."

Sherlock disconnected, stretched in the bed, mind completely engaged now and sleep out of the question.  All in all, he would rather have finished decoding the message from the bees.

++

John opens one eye when Sherlock speaks his name a few hours later.  A cup of tea, steaming, appears on the coffee table in front of him, and then there is more motion.  Sitting across from him, dressed but for shoes, is Sherlock.  It all hits John immediately, then, that there is a reason he is on Sherlock's couch at Baker Street.  It hits like the proverbial ton of bricks, and John wishes that he could have spent more time in that span of time between awakening and remembering that Mary is gone, and his ill daughter is still in the NICU.  The brief moments between awakening and realisation were pleasant and peaceful.  Now it occurs to John that today will be full of grieving and worrying.  At some point, he will contact a funeral director and initiate plans.  For now, however, Sherlock is waiting for him expectantly, and speaks his name again as John blinks a few times, rubs his eyes.

"John."

Something in the tone alerts John that something is up, and he quickly elbows up, then sits.  His hair is askew, there are pillow marks on his cheek, and alarm in his eyes.  "What happened?"

"Have a sip.  She's okay," he says cautiously while John follows directions.  "Got a call about three."  He explained what he knew, told about the intubation, that she was better with the breathing tube, that a few changes had been made.  "I'm sorry if I made the wrong choice, not immediately waking you.  The doc said her oxygen was better, she was more comfortable.  He used the word _stable_."  To Sherlock's relief, John does not look angry, but mildly nauseous.  "He goes off duty by eight, and we can go right over whenever you're ready, so you can talk to him."

"Oh my god, that poor baby."  He swallows, looks away, gathers himself together.  "I did need the sleep."  Ignoring the tea, he stretches stiffly and stands up.  "Let me shower and then we can go."  Sherlock presses the mug into his hand as he gathers his sea-legs and heads to the loo.  "Or I can," he amends, "I didn't mean to assume you _have_ to go along..."

"John," he chides lightly, "of course I'm going."  There is a look of gratitude exchanged, and Sherlock tries to smile reassuringly.  "Soon as you're ready."

It isn't long before John is showered, wearing a borrowed shirt, sleeves rolled up, and they are back at the nursery.  The doctor catches them at the doorway to fill in the holes for John, and they speak technically for a few minutes while John asks about ventilator induced barotrauma, bronchopulmonary dysplasia, and expected fractions of inspired oxygen in premature lungs.  John is itchy to see her, and both he and Sherlock scrub up as usual while the doctor tries to reassure them that the setback should be, and hopefully will be, temporary.

The baby is in the same incubator, laying on her back, mitts over her little fingers, monitors everywhere and sensors transmitting even more data than before, to the bedside monitor.  John recognises that her vital signs now include capnography readings, and are normal, and her airway pressures as within range.  The small tube is nothing like the huge one Mary had... and John looks away, seeking Sherlock, needing to find something unchangeable and solid before the tidal wave sweeps him away, washes him out to sea, sucks him under, and drowns him.  Somehow, Sherlock knows what he needs and why, places a warm hand on his back as he uses his shoe to nudge a wheeled stool over to the baby's cot.

The nurse is waiting for them, explains the uncuffed tiny endotracheal tube that is connected to the small ventilator.  The tape holding the small tube shares the protective hydrocolloid dressing that secures the feeding tube. "I just gave her a tiny dose of morphine, she was fighting the ventilator, wasting energy."

" _Morphine?  Seriously?"_ Sherlock asks John, low and surprised.  

His alarm, John sees, is real but unfounded, so he touches his arm reassuringly.  "It increases compliance, so she doesn't fight against, work against, the ventilator," John explains.  The nurse briefly reviews the ventilator modality, SIMV, where the vent will assist her own breathing and support each breath as she needs it.

The nurse smiles - _smiles_ , which annoys Sherlock for some reason - and says, "Our little ones who are intubated right away tolerate the tube and the vent much better, but these little fighters who have breathed for a while on their own understand the difference."  John looks over at his little fighter, the grin from the nurse seeming to boost his spirits just a bit.

He brushes the back of his fingers on her still very scrawny legs and says fondly, "And apparently she doesn't like it much."

"Grouchy like her father, then?" Sherlock mutters toward John's shoulder. " _Fan-bloody-tastic_."

John makes eye contact, feigning shock.  "I am not grouchy."

"Have you ever met yourself before tea?" he jokes, and they are all, as expected, searching for the levity that will help them survive the seriousness of the situation.

The nurse glances from one to the other, takes in the friendship as well as the hand that is still resting lightly on John's shoulder, and says quietly, "I think I'd stick with strong-willed.  Let's spin this positively, shall we?"

"Right. Stubborn." Sherlock has always enjoyed a quick riposte, and they engage a few minutes.  The mood is lighter, for a bit anyway.

The same physician who had been on all night arrives, and they discuss some of the things in her favour - the surfactant doses that had been given should continue to help, the early intervention, the nutrition support she was receiving.  He reminds John of some of the things that are still working against her - the lack of time before birth to get a dose of steroids into the mother to help with lung maturity for the precipitous delivery, the lack of weight gain, the developing aspiration pneumonia.  Sherlock keeps a close eye on John, although he thinks the distraction of the baby's illness is keeping his mind off the other loss in his life.  A few times, John seems to press just slightly into Sherlock's arm, or one time his knee as the doctor is speaking, as if a nonverbal plea to stay close.

The morning passes slowly, with rounding physicians, IV team to check the baby's PICC line, another chest xray late morning, a tiny blood sample for testing.  The neonatologist returns just after lunch with more news. 

"Good likelihood of a red blood cell transfusion probably later today, John.  All the blood draws leave her with less than optimal, and we could wait another day, but I think, given the breathing troubles, today makes more sense."

"Give her more oxygen carrying capacity of course," John says.  "Should help her get off the vent?"

"Hopefully.  Keep in mind that about 80% of NICU babies who are vented need at least one transfusion."  He hands John the consent form on the clipboard at her bedside, explains the indications for his daughter needing it, reiterating the safety of the blood supply, and John signs where the finger is pointing.  

It is reminiscent of the last consent form he'd signed in the presence of the transplant coordinator, and he glances at Sherlock with a shaky breath exhalation.  "CMV negative and a blood warmer, as I recall?"

The doctor is shaking his head.  "Blood warmer only if large volume or a double exchange.  The isolette lights will be enough.  And CMV screens are negative of course."  The doc smiles at John, pats his arm reassuringly, glances between the two men so focused on the baby, and paying close attention to his words to them.  "I have a request for you, too," he begins with a gentle smile. "For just a few minutes, John, turn off the physician mindset.  Right now she needs her dad, and right now, that's all anyone is asking of you."

John looks over, weighing the words and the challenge, the suggestion. "I'm not sure I can.  Or that I know how."  Sherlock recognises the truth of John's confession.  The combination physician plus soldier or assistant has bailed them out of many scrapes, dangerous situation, or injuries over the years.  It is part and parcel of John.

The doc glances at the monitor again, makes a few adjustments to the wires that come from the baby to keep them out of the way.  "I will worry about the technical things, the correct care.  And I'm not saying stop thinking..."

John and Sherlock cast a quick glance at the other, as the comment is reminiscent of all the times Sherlock complains about John's rather pathetic thinking attempts.

"... but try to turn it down some, relax if you can, get to know your daughter.  Enjoy her."  He touches John's arm, nods at Sherlock, steps from the bedside.

The nurse is also standing there, and directs her comment to Sherlock.  "It would be good to catch a breath of fresh air, if you can convince him."  She turns to John.  "She'll be getting the blood over about three hours.  Come back after that, and we'll help you hold her again for a while.  There's a nice double-wide recliner we can bring over since she won't be eating.  Most of our parents find it fairly relaxing."  She glances at the baby, at John, smiles a compassionate smile.  "After the day you've had, the _week_ you've had, I think a nice cuddle with the baby would be good for both of you."

Sherlock looks a bit intimidated by the tubes.  "Even with all that stuff on her?"

"You'd be amazed."  She smiles, nods.  "The babies seem to like it a lot, being held.  Plus, after the blood transfusion, she should tolerate the activity a bit better."  Angling her head at a flatscreen TV in the corner, she shrugs.  "Some parents bring in a movie, have dinner here while taking turns holding their baby."

Sherlock's pale skin pales a bit more, and he looks to John.  John thinks to himself that seeing Sherlock holding her would be a lovely sight, a tender one.  He thinks sharing the experience would be wonderful, and wants to encourage him so he adds, "If you want to, she should probably start getting to know you."

He doesn't actually answer, but wonders, if he can swing a peek at her thin skin and study her just a bit while she is that close to him.  Certainly John won't notice too much.

++

They are barely in the back of the car Mycroft sent at Sherlock's request when Sherlock speaks John's name.  The tone is mostly curious, and clearly he had something on his mind.  John turns to him, with clearer eyes than he's had for a while, so Sherlock decides to plunge ahead. "You said you were afraid of giving her a name."  John's cheeks flush and he looks distraught but is silent.  "I get it, I understand because I understand you.  Do you really think not giving the baby a name will help you feel any less attached to her?"  His words are not harsh, not critical, simply asked to evoke an honest evaluation.

He offers a minimal shrug of his shoulders, knowing Sherlock is right and that he has no excuse.

"She would need a name if something happened, anyway, you realise."

John almost demands that the driver turn around, as the separation between their location and his daughter in the hospital now seemed entirely too distant.  "Bit not good, Sherlock."  He stares out the window, watching cross streets.  The driver will be taking them to his flat where he can shower, pack a bag, and pick up the mail.  There is one other errand that Sherlock will offer John but has not enlightened him about yet.  Sherlock knows it will be unpleasant and he is dreading it.  "Mary and I couldn't agree, so we were going to wait to see what she looked like before choosing."  He doesn't say that Mary hated the name he liked almost as much as he disliked the one she preferred.  "We figured we had time, would work it out.  Compromise.  It wasn't really a fight, just a disagreement."  John swallowed hard, feeling the loss and the guilt over the whole thing, and wishing their last interaction had not been a conflict.  "The only thing we ever really and truly fought about was..."  John's filter had let too much slip through, and of course Sherlock noticed.

"What was that?"

"You.  You were the only thing," John says, in a quiet serious voice, "that really mattered, anyway."  He tries to swallow, looking directly at Sherlock.  "The name thing, we would have settled that, eventually."  He rubs the back of his neck.  "The fights, they were all directly or peripherally about you.  What she did to you," and his eyes glanced to Sherlock's torso, with the gunshot wound never being mentioned but they both knowing what John means.  "What you and I...  Even right before the...  Right before she... "

"The accident."

"Our last words were an argument about my meeting you.  She said I put you ahead of her.  Again.  Continually."

Sherlock let his hand drift to John's knee, uncertain and simply wanting John not to feel abandoned.  "I'm sorry, John.  I never wanted..."  John's hand slides to Sherlock's, and it is cool, clammy.  "I didn't know you were still fighting about what happened."

John breaks the gaze with Sherlock, exhales, "She claimed I never really forgave her, and she brought it up quite a bit."

"Extreme behaviour that includes shooting a person will do that, perhaps.  Stirs up a bit of conflict."

"Truthfully, she may have been right."  John looked at Sherlock's hand on his leg, the long fingers, remembers the way they had felt in his hair, the warmth of his mouth.  "I hardly ever mentioned it, but I did think about it a lot."

John's hand comes to his own face, and, thinking about their friendship, he feels the very slightest smile beginning that his hand brushes away, but not before he sees Sherlock watching him, watching him still, and there is the kindest, small look of compassion.

Now, he tries to tell Sherlock that it feels like an ultimate betrayal to get his way now choosing her name, to win, to not acknowledge Mary's opinion at all.  Sherlock listens, smirks without apology, and offers, "You're entitled.  You have the responsibility, you also get the privilege that accompanies it.  Accompanies _her._ "

"I can't ... It frightens me."  The whisper is barely audible, and his voice trembles.  "What if something happens?" 

"You know that there are no guarantees.  You have seen too much in medicine, too much in Afghanistan, too much in the _last week_.  What if it does?  Worrying doesn't change anything.  You're a survivor."  John recalls the life events Sherlock hints at - the war, the fall, the past week's changes to his family.  He sees depression, the deep feelings of loss and grief, and doesn't want to do any of it again.   _Ever._

"I know."  John does know.  He raises tired and sad eyes to look at Sherlock, who meets his gaze calmly and steadily.  He does not flinch from John's honesty or his situation, and in the set of his eyes and his jaw, John can see that Sherlock will be beside him no matter what.  Softly, he reaches a hand to connect with Sherlock's again, murmurs, " _And you made a vow_."

"I did at that."  His statement is comforting and affirming.  "Your daughter needs a name.  If you can't choose, I'll choose for you."

"Of course you will _not_."  John thought of the funeral that he would be planning, the other choices he would be called on to make.  "Some decisions do not fall to you."  The glance they share is an agreement not to bring up other terrible decisions Sherlock had made, rushing without thought into something that had repercussions on them both.

"Then you should name her whatever you'd like."  Sherlock does not belabour the point.  He has backed John into the corner and whittled away any other choice.

John considers that it is time, and that Sherlock is right.  Grudgingly, he realises Sherlock has not pressured him to do much of anything, but now, especially with only one area of the hospital to visit, that his daughter does need a name. "What do you think of Fiona?"  He chooses wording that at least considers Sherlock's opinion, allows for the possibility that he loathes it for some reason.

"Fiona," he repeats.  "Fiona Watson. It suits her."  Suddenly concerned, he narrows an eye at John.  "Your choice?"

"Yes."  He leans back against the seat.  "Fiona."  He does not volunteer any more information.

"The nurses will be glad."  Sherlock is relieved too, it seems as if John is looking at least slightly to the future.  "I'm sure they will quickly get a name card in her isolette."

"She could still, you know, get really bad.  The longer she stays on the ventilator, the more damage to her lungs.  This could still get ugly, and," he is quiet, pauses there, gathers his thoughts, "end very badly."

Sherlock cocks his head, acknowledges that he heard John, says only, "She can just as easily get well, recover completely."

The car slides to a stop in front of the Watson's flat.  John stares at it but does not move.  "Mary chose this place, fell in love with it, wouldn't really consider any of the others we looked at.  I never cared for it."

"Why?"

"It always felt cold.  The layout was too angular..." he hears the excuses in his voice, decides to speak his mind.  "It wasn't Baker Street."  He does not say that he was lonely, although the thought was probably loud enough for Sherlock to hear it.

"You could move back in, you know."

"I certainly can't afford to keep this flat without returning to work almost immediately."

"John."  They sit in the idling car.  "It might make sense for the short term."  He shrugs.  "Especially if you're going to need to turn this in anyway."

"Having a baby on Baker Street, Sherlock, will drive you right off your trolley."  John doesn't mention the likelihood of the special medical considerations, monitoring, and round-the-clock feedings the baby will need.

"I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it."  Sherlock nods at the front door, and they exit the vehicle.  Sherlock has taken the key from John already, and advises as he unlocks the door, "Pack enough for a while.  You won't have to come back too soon, then, and it'll give you time to think about it."

Sherlock leads the way, holds the door until John comes inside.  Mary's presence is immediately assaulting him - her coat, her slippers, the book she was reading, the eyeglasses she fussed about needing.  In the loo her prenatal vitamins sit next to his razor, and he packs the one and bins the other.  Into the bag he grabs from his closet, he stuffs changes of clothes, pyjamas, his phone charger, and grabs his pillow.  "I hate it here, even more now."

John follows Sherlock into the unfinished, unprepared nursery, where the cot has not yet even been readied, some baby clothing has been washed and boxed.  There is a case of nappies and John knows everything is going to be huge on her right now.  He packs the tiniest of little pink outfits Mary had bought when they'd had the first scan.  There is a photo frame of he and Mary holding the scan photo, both grinning.  John considers throwing the frame against the wall, instead takes the edge in his hand and quietly places the photo face down on the bureau in what he admits to himself will never be the nursery.  Sherlock takes a look at him, seeing the grief there on his face, holds out a hand to him.  Without too much conscious effort or thought, John ends up wrapped up in Sherlock's long arms, hugging there silently in a room that had previously been filled with dreams and plans, and now, feeling broken and shattered, John couldn't wait to get out of it.

He grabs his laptop case, his RAMC mug, and his medical kit (having no idea when he will return to work, only that the bag plus his white coat belong with him).

They are ferried to Baker Street, and Sherlock asks the driver to wait.  They carry John's things inside, and once their arms are empty in the sitting room, Sherlock turns to John.  "I know Lestrade is in his office this afternoon."  Sherlock is watching him carefully.  "We don't have to talk to him, ever, if you don't want to."  John's eyes seem veiled as they look back at Sherlock, filled with both grief and fatigue.  And almost immediately and more visibly, _dread_.

"No, I want answers.  There's news, I need to know it."  He steels himself.

Sherlock nods, having predicted that answer.  "All right, if you're sure."

John feels a ripple of fear twitter through his chest, stomach, and arms.  Information about the accident, he knows, and he is also aware that it is not good.  "Fine."

Once they are seated in the car, Sherlock withdraws his mobile and rings the nursery, identifies himself, asks if there has been any change in Baby Watson.  The short answer is that she is the same, and that she is tolerating her feeds and the vent and the blood is infusing.  The tension in John's shoulders relax just a bit when Sherlock relates the update to him, and then he is quiet again.

If Sherlock could have likened John to an animal for the ride over to the Met, it would have been a turtle, where his head disappeared inside his shell and he was shutting down.  Even the helpless expression about his blue eyes was dull and non-comprehending.

The car is dismissed from there, and John doesn't question anything, simply follows Sherlock into Greg's office where he is nudged toward a chair and the door is closed.  Greg, from behind his desk, looks uncomfortable and sad, and John gets a sinking feeling in his gut.

A file is on Greg's desk, and the expression on Greg's face seems to indicate that he would sooner be in front of a firing squad than there in that room.

Sherlock fixes a glance at the DI, shakes his head slightly and advises, "Be quick about it."

John seems to be braced for more horrific news, so Greg agrees with Sherlock's statement and begins.  "We investigated the accident at length, John.  Cameras on traffic lights, CCTV, witnesses.  It didn't become too clear until we got call records from Mary's mobile.  There was a text conversation going on at the time of the accident.  Seems Mary was distracted when she ran the red light, on the A10."

 _"Jesus,"_ he breathes.  He had fussed at her before for that very thing, texting while driving, so he was not surprised.  Disappointed, but not shocked.  He doesn't see the very pointed look that Greg and Sherlock exchange, and Sherlock thinks perhaps this was a mistake, bringing John here.

"The other car occupants did suffer injuries, but seems that everyone will recover."  Greg looked between his two friends seated there.  "That's good news I suppose."

John's brow creases at bit at that.  Good news implies bad news, and Sherlock leans closer to explain and clarify, "They're not going to sue her estate, in other words."

"Okay," John answers slowly.  "The accident was her fault, though."

"Well, there's that too."  Greg clears his throat.

John thinks of the times they'd driven together, the opportunities he'd overlooked, to remind her she was also risking the baby by texting and driving, but the anger he expected is strangely absent.  He is simply sad, senseless, fatalistic.  They are still watching him, John sees, and his thoughts are muddy as nothing clicks together. "What am I missing?"  Greg is silent, staring at Sherlock in a plea for rescue.  John blinks, tries to clear his head and process what they have told him.  He turns to face Sherlock who is seated next to him. _"Sherlock."_

"She wasn't going to her book club.  The A10 heads the opposite direction."

John looks over at Sherlock, remembers something trivial.  "She'd left her book in the flat."

The silence builds, and John can tell that they are waiting on him.  Jaws clenched, he asks, "What else?  What aren't you telling me?"  John considers the records Greg had found.  "You have call records, text records," John says slowly, and his head starts to throb.  "Texts."  The pounding of his pulse is loud in his ears and he can feel the flushing of his skin, the clamminess of his palms.  "Sherlock?" he whispers.

"I'm sorry, John."  Greg can stand the scene in his office no longer, utters the quiet apology, and leaves the room with the quiet snick of the door closing behind him.

"Tell me."  John speaks with his low voice and the despair reminds Sherlock that he is not himself, not getting it, not  _yet._

"She was meeting someone."  

John's throat was dry and raw as he continued.  "A man?"

"Yes."

John can feel the anger rising.  "Did you read the texts?"

He shakes his head.  "I didn't need to, I knew."

"That she was having a bloody affair."  John suddenly doesn't know this stranger beside him, this friend, this keeper of secrets.   _"You knew."_

"Yes."

"Who was it?"

"I don't know."  He didn't even try to hide the lie.  "You can ask Lestrade if it really matters."

John decides that it really _doesn't_.  "It's been going on a long time."

"I'm not sure how long.  Long enough."

"It didn't occur to you to fucking _tell me_?"

"Not especially."  When clearly John was ready to respond, face flushed, Sherlock continued.  "You had a baby on the way."

"You said nothing.  Nothing to me, nothing to Mary."

"No."  Sherlock thinks that perhaps they should never have said anything, let this secret die with her.  "But you wanted the truth now."  He wishes things were different, hates that John is now hurting and that Mary could have betrayed him like this, could continue to hurt him.  "Lestrade knows, of course, the investigating officers as well.  Mycroft, I'm sure.  I don't know who else.  I thought it would be worse if you found out later and we hadn't told you.  Perhaps I was wrong."  

"No.  Not wrong."  John feels a devastation on a whole new level.  "This was her wrong-doing, not yours."  

He wants to reach out, touch John in some way but is fairly certain John would shrug him off immediately.  "I'm sorry, John.  Truly."

There is a minimal nod of John's head as he responds to Sherlock's statement, followed by a momentary pause where John seems to be processing.  Sherlock can see the moment something occurs to John when he sits upright.  "We need to go back to the hospital."  John stands, and when Sherlock balks at his sudden decisiveness.  "DNA testing.  She might not even be mine."

"Wait."  Sherlock rises, too, slower, and now does reach out to touch his arm, encircling bicep with his hand.  "Remember the day she was born, right after the surgery?"

"Not much, I guess.  Vaguely."  Those first days were a blur to John, when he'd been so overwhelmed, functioning on almost no sleep, where news from the ICU had only progressed from bad to worse, and updates from the NICU that his daughter was fragile but holding her own.  Images of the baby with the tubes and monitors flicker through his thoughts.

"We of course had blood from the baby.  You don't remember the nurse taking a buccal swab from you with some sort of claim it was needed to store her cord blood?"

John's eyes shut as only pieces of the memory are recalled.  "Something about HLA testing and two identifiers for storage."  He is still, lips pursed together, remembering.  "Lies, apparently?"

"Yes, well, partially, anyway."  Sherlock is surprised, and pleasantly impressed, given how bad John was at the time, that he is able to remember even that much.  "DNA testing has already been completed."

"And?"

Sherlock reaches inside the Belstaff, to the inner breast pocket.  He withdraws the envelope marked urgent, addressed to Mycroft Holmes at his office address, hands it to John.  His name is written in the line under Rush Delivery.  It is sealed.

"How long have you had this?"

"Yesterday."

John looks at him again, holding the paper.   _"And?"_ he says again.

"I have no idea."

"Open it."  John hands it back.

"You're sure.  You don't have to, you know."

" _Open. It."_

Sherlock seizes a moment, breaks the seal on the envelope and opens the flap, hands it back to John.

The corner of John's mouth twitches just barely and he tries to imagine what it might feel like to let loose a left hook into Sherlock's nose.  "I swear to God, Sherlock..."  He leaves the threat unfinished while Sherlock debates how much to continue being intentionally difficult.  He thinks perhaps he has pushed him far enough, although he much prefers aggravated John to withdrawn John.

"Fine."  Sherlock snatches the envelope back, removes the contents.  "Yours," he says after a brief perusal, "with 99.6% probability."  He shrugs, offers the paper to John.  "I was almost certain.  Seven or eight months ago you were fairly inseparable.  And she - _Fiona_ \- has that little bend in her ear, just like yours, right here," and he reaches out, brushes his thumb over the helix of John's left ear.

The warm touch of Sherlock's thumb is electric, a bit of a startle from John as their skin connected.  It is intimate and gentle. "I'm not sure how I can be both angry and relieved at the same time."

"I'm sorry that I upset you.  I had hoped it was over, that the baby would..."  John interrupts Sherlock's sentence, his fingers coming up to shush him, then both froze, realising the depth of the connection and the charged moment.  There is only a small change of position, as John raises his face and Sherlock lowers his.  Their hands slide from face and ear into hair and to cup the back of the other's head.  The distance narrows, pupils dilating, breath mingling with growing nervous anticipation.  Warm lips come together, tender and soft only for a moment, then desperate and hot and seeking.  John could feel Sherlock's other arm slide around behind him, drawing both of their bodies close.  There are hard muscles and hard angles and _hardnesses_ pressing through layers of clothing.

John pulls back his head just enough that he can get a few words out.  "Lestrade's office."  There is a horrified amused chuckle under the statement.  "And _timing_ ," he adds, and their eyes meet as they remember when Sherlock had spoken the same quiet word back at the hospital.

"Right."  A few steps apart do not change the heat and the chemistry and the attraction there between them.  John can feel his heart pounding, stares at Sherlock's mouth, watches him lick his lip nervously. "I could lock the door."

"He probably has a key."  John takes a deep breath.  "His office and all."

Sherlock hopes John does not mind as he says, "I've thought about that, about doing that," he gestures between them, his voice quietly solemn, "for a long time."

"I'd be lying if I tried to deny the attraction."

"I've known that," and his hand waves dismissively, somehow without a doubt communicating the word _obviously_ , "but you had..."  He doesn't say her name.

"You never said anything."

"I wanted to," Sherlock stands to his full height, puts both hands in trouser pockets, and stares at a spot off over John's shoulder, "in fact, was planning on saying so when I returned."  He glances at John only briefly, the unspoken words that he kept silent, because John was otherwise involved, had moved on, are unnecessary.  So much has happened since then, the wedding, Moriarty, Sherlock's brief dabble with substances again.  John thinks he can perhaps understand a little more what had motivated Sherlock to seek mind-numbing escapism.

Blowing out a tired breath after a moment, John looks down at the paper in his hand.  "Thanks for leaving nothing unanswered, by the way."  There is a quiet nod of Sherlock's head followed by a small smile.  "You used her name.  Called her Fiona."

One side of Sherlock's mouth goes up, and John appreciates the familiarity of the expression.  Sherlock asks, "Change your mind?"

"No, I like it.  Now if she could only ..."  He was going to say survive, opted not to speak the painful uncertainty.  "I think I'd like to get back over there, to her."

"We can introduce the nurses to her, by name," Sherlock observes. 

John lets his eyes rove around Greg's office, trying to absorb all of the disclosures and the finally expressed mutual attraction they are flirting with, and lifts his eyes back to Sherlock then, feeling a bit more settled despite it.  "Great idea." 

++

They hail a cab, ride to the hospital in silence, nursing wounds and terribly unfriendly thoughts that neither shares.  As they leave the cab, John catches sight of his left hand reaching to close the door behind him.

He looks down at his hand where his ring is suddenly suffocating him, burning, scalding, eroding his very soul.  It meant fidelity to him, now it is a reminder of betrayal and deceit.  The humiliation of an unfaithful spouse.  Sherlock sees his distress, recognises the reason, leads him into the gents just inside the main lobby of the hospital.  Turning the water all the way to cold, he shoves John's left hand into the stream of water.  Their eyes meet in the mirror under the unflattering fluorescent lighting.  John tries not to notice how utterly tired and beaten he looks.  A moment later, Sherlock pulls his chilled hand out of the water and a second later John feels both of Sherlock's slimy hands press over, into, and around his wet fingers and palm, delivering a copious amount of thick, liquid hand soap.  A few twists, a working of the ring around beneath the knuckle, some fairly exquisite pain of unyielding metal forcing skin against bone.  Twisting, rocking, and sliding the piece of jewellery, Sherlock feels the skin tighten as the ring slides up.  He senses they are almost there, almost free, and just as the ring begins to move across the tightest place, the skin giving thinly over the joint, he plunges their hands back into the water, letting the cool water rinse the soap, ease the sting, soothe the red mark that will be left behind.  The ring is off.  He hands John a towel, rinses and dries his own hands.  He pockets the ring, says, "I'll hang onto this."

John nods, eyeing the reddened skin of his finger before tucking both hands into his jacket pockets.

Sherlock hopes the other, deeper, invisible marks will be soothed away, too.  He doubts it will be soon.

++

The baby is now laying in the same place in the NICU but under a card in fresh glittery gel pen with the name 'Fiona' written across it with a flourish.

John and Sherlock have already scrubbed of course, standing at the isolette, listening to the nurse.  "Respiratory's on their way, and she's ready."  Fiona has been changed, monitor leads straightened, been hyperoxygenated and then suctioned.  She is wearing only a nappy and a pink hat.  "We do this all the time, first one is the scariest."  The nurse glances between them - if John looks frightened, understandably, Sherlock is positively petrified.  "She's had her blood, did great with that."  John can agree that her color is better, less pale.  "She's had a rest, recovered from the earlier activity.  You'll hold her for a couple of hours, provided she's not showing signs of severe stress - and she may for a few minutes at first.  All normal."  She smiles reassuringly, hearing the therapist at the sink across the NICU.  "We ease the baby to your chest," she explains and John's shirt is already open as he sits at the edge of the wide recliner next to her isolette. "It's a brief disconnect from the vent to get the circuit over to you, a quick reconnect.  You get comfortable in the chair while we secure lines and make sure things are safe."

He nods, and the staff's comfort and familiarity with the procedure have allayed much of his fear, although he is still nervous that Fiona will not tolerate the activity and need to be returned immediately.  He is already feeling guilty enough.  "Let's do this, then."

With a minimum of fuss and even less conversation beyond the verbal cues as the nurse leads the process, in a few minutes, John is reclined in the chair with his daughter against him, the endotracheal and feeding tubes secured with both tape and a hemostat against John's shirt.  A blanket is over them, and John's hands are splayed, one over the fragile skin of Fiona's back and one supporting her thin legs.  With a lump in his throat, he watches the nurse silence both the elevated heart rate alarm and the low temperature sensor alarm.  She catches his look of hesitancy.  "Normal.  She needs a few minutes to adapt."  The other nurse and respiratory therapist leave, satisfied, while Fiona's nurse looks on, encourages John that talking and touching her are generally helpful.  "She's used to hearing heart sounds and speech.  She did great with her oxygen saturations, by the way, with the brief disconnect."

John takes a quick moment to glance over at Sherlock, who is just looking on awkwardly, uncomfortably, concerned.  "Sit if you want.  There's room."  He lets his eyes flick to the recliner, to the open space next to him, and then smirks at Sherlock's initial reaction of wanting to decline immediately.

"I'm good, I'm okay here," he says after a moment.

"Please?"

Their eyes lock, dark and nervous ones into pale and frightened ones, and then a moment later, together they seem stronger, more at ease.  John can tell Sherlock will do it, and waits until he has a hip on the chair before speaking again.  "I'll give you a minute before I hand her over."

"Not funny, John."  He is careful to keep his distance and his body language is reminiscent of the awkwardness of an adolescent boy at his first co-ed party.  "Not funny at all."

"Unbutton your shirt and get ready."

_"John."_

"God, just relax," John says quietly, "it's not like I have a bomb strapped to my chest or anything."  The amused eye contact, and briefest glimmer of the self-control that prevents the inappropriate crime-scene-giggling they've done in the past, feels like the most normal thing about the past two weeks.

"I will leave you here if you don't cease this foolishness," he says but there is a smile lurking there too.  He is sorely tempted to comment additionally on the comparative dangers and similarities between a daughter and a bomb, but the nurse is still standing there, vigilant, and he's not too certain John would appreciate it.

John is distracted as the baby wriggles, her cheek against his chest, and he is wide eyed as, despite the tubes and how sick she has been, her eyes open and she is as alert as she's been for a few days.  The nurse checks the monitor, adjusts the blanket so it will not slide down, and, smiling, nods her approval.  "See?  This is where she wanted to be.  Heart rate's down, she's more relaxed.  Oxygenating."  She gestures to the desk, where she will return to keep an eye on things if needed, pats John's shoulder on her way.  

John eyes the monitor and sees more normal vital signs than when she was in the isolette.  The tension leaves his shoulders a bit and he lets his fingers rub protective little circles on her skin.  His eyes leave the monitor to watch the baby, and then somewhat victoriously he turns to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock is staring at John, and the pale blue eyes catch John, hold him there, riveting and holding.  There is unexpected and unverbalised tenderness - not just from John as he looks at Fiona, but in the gaze that connects the two men.

John clears his throat, glances down again to make sure the baby with all her tubes is all right with her bit of moving she is doing, looks back to Sherlock.  "I get the impression that things are going to turn out, eventually, a bit differently than I expected."

"Problem?"

"Might be a bit soon."

Sherlock's eyes flick to John's mouth, where he has licked his lip again, self-conscious.  His voice is quiet and hinting of conspiracy.  "You still want me to unbutton my shirt and get ready?"  The sensual tone of his voice is low and rumbly and somehow more funny and mood-lightening than ridiculous.

"My hands are a little full."

Sherlock's brow quirks, the smile on his mouth appearing and then disappearing.   _"Timing_ is everything, John."  He relaxes, crosses his ankles, pulls out his mobile.  "Too bad you're not wearing a heart monitor too, I'll bet I could talk your heart rate into elevating."  John chuckles, and Sherlock continues, "You know, for Fiona's benefit."

++ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading along!
> 
> I have updated the tags and am looking forward to finishing chapter 5 to share with you all.


	5. Goodbye and Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funerals are hard enough without having to appear as if everything had been okay. John holds it together because that's who he is, and because Sherlock's got his back.
> 
> Sherlock continues to take care of things as John returns to Baker Street, and eventually goes back to work.

A few days later, John stands in a parlour where a closed casket lies in the next room as his friends, her friends, their friends, and other faces John barely sees, come to pay their respects, hug him, offer condolences.  Some of the Met officers come by, his office staff, a few patients are in the receiving line, a couple of neighbours, and he remembers a few of their names. recognises many but not all who are there.  Sherlock is again at John's elbow, not saying much, rarely prompts John with a name or a connection, just a _presence_.  John knows that, at the minimum provocation, he will descend upon the situation, to support or rescue him if needed.  He feels foggy, distant, experiencing unreal settings and interactions.

It was a funeral - and not just for Mary.  John tried to verbalise to Sherlock that more than just a person had died - but also his expectations, his relationship, his whole life had been set in a lie, and the death of all of that had been just as unexpected.  He mourns for all of it and wonders if the hurt inflicted on him by Mary helps him grieve just a tiny bit less.  From behind the barrier of his grief, he tries not to wonder how many people knew about it.  His mind wanders and he finds himself thinking about whether anyone still uses the word 'cuckold' anymore, dismisses it.  He glances at Sherlock periodically, drawing support and strength in order to get through these next moments of Mary's funeral.

It had been minimal work to arrange this.  A few quick phone calls, a bit of assistance from both Holmes brothers (one keeping John moving about appropriately and the other taking care of death notices and obituary details).  They involve a gentle, respectful funeral director, and John has what he wants:  a simple service, given the lack of family and the baby who is still so medically fragile.  There is music playing, and at a pre-arranged time, the obituary is read.  John takes a place then off to one side of the room, as people continue to pass through the little line.  Sherlock is close by, and Mycroft is there too, both watching the door and the majority of the room.  Surreal and numb, John tries not to think about the reason.

++

John had a specific request, as funeral plans had solidified.  He'd fixed his eyes fixed on Sherlock, staring intently and resolutely, until Sherlock's curiosity was aroused and he asked the question.

"I have a serious favour, Sherlock.  And I don't care what measures you employ to carry it out."  It was the Captain Watson voice, the one not to mess with, the one where he meant business.  Something in John's tone must have triggered a rather significant warning, and Sherlock had looked on with steadiness and interest in whatever has so motivated John.

"The _boyfriend,"_ said with a hint of a low snarl _, "_ is not welcome at her service."  John seethed with the thought.  "Nor anywhere close to me.  Not to me or Fiona."  Fiona was still intubated, would still be in the hospital, of course, in the NICU.  Fiercely, his words seemed to make sure it was known that he was feeling extremely protective, and he wanted it out in the open just in case he were to appear.  There had been enough unexpected-ness in his life lately, and he wanted to circle the wagons as it were, throw up a safe barrier around his family if he could do so.  And while Mycroft did drive Sherlock to distraction, even Sherlock admitted that he did prove useful for certain tasks or in specific situations.

The warning and request wasn't entirely necessary, as Sherlock had already considered Fiona's - and John's - vulnerability.  Once Greg had told Sherlock about his findings, about Mary's extra-marital activities, Sherlock'd been on the phone with his brother, curtly demanding that John be protected.  And his daughter as well.  Visitor restrictions had already been in place but were extended and re-communicated, and Mycroft had been particularly emphatic with hospital security.  John still had no idea, and Sherlock saw no reason to enlighten him.

The steely blue eyes connect with the darker ones, watching him squint a bit, then Sherlock nodded again in agreement.  "Does that mean," he said with just a hint of too-eager anticipation, "that _I_ can have a go at him?"  One corner of his mouth had just barely risen.

"If you wish.  Just... keep it to yourself."

++

So far, both Sherlock and Mycroft have been calmly attentive and no diversionary tactics have been required, with no visitors to intercept.  The constant greeting of others, hugging some, touching almost everyone, offering comfort, is grueling.  Mrs. Hudson is distraught, and John holds her, tries to offer soothing words, but she is heartbroken.  Before she can do any further damage, Sherlock materialises to rescue John.  "Now, now, Mrs. Hudson," he says, disconnecting her gently from John, "you know you're going to be an honourary grandmama to John's daughter, don't you?"  That distraction, of course, is helpful.

John finds the encounter exhausting.  Between the funeral, the loss of his wife, the discovery she had something on the side more than a one-off, and his escalating desire to visit Fiona, he is, again, running on empty.  Sherlock finds a barstool from somewhere, brings it over, pushes him onto it.  A bottle of water appears in his hand, and Sherlock stands in front of him, flaring eyes riveted and silent, until John understands, takes a compliant drink.  The simple caring act, as John looks into those fathomless eyes that see him, that see much more, are more comforting than anything else so far, John thinks.  He reaches out a hand, cool and firm, squeezes Sherlock's bicep.  Their eyes hold longer than a few seconds until they are interrupted again.

A few of Mary's nurses come, explaining they bring remembrances and hugs from those who were unable to attend, either working or sleeping, and Jenn is there with somber eyes that spill tears as she hugs him.  Of all that have come through the line so far, it is to Jenn that John clings with a degree of emotion.  He is able to speak a few words to her about her caring and her help that last day.

Someone John doesn't recognise clasps his hand, makes an off-hand comment about how much they've missed Mary at book club since before the wedding.  The moment, the comment, freeze in time briefly, and then life continues.  The woman in line expresses that, while everyone understood, they were sorry she'd had to stop coming.  John feels the stiffness in the dark suit, the tightness under the collar, hates the sense of the stranger that he didn't even apparently know, of the lies, of the hatefulness of where they were.  He tunes out that woman and answers rotely to the next person waiting to talk to him, and John is very aware that Sherlock has bristled as well.  John tries not to think of all the evenings he'd been advised she was with her book club friends, of the times where he'd been so unaware that he'd provided transport to and from an apparent rendezvous.

There is a tug at his elbow at the next break in the line, the pause between well-wishers, where there is no one clamoring for his attention.  "May I see you a moment please?"  It is Sherlock, and it is as if there is a critical need to be discussed.  John wonders what he has missed, checks to find Mycroft still in the room, follows him into the small anteroom that sits off the main entryway, away from the crowd and the chairs and the casket and curious eyes.

"What is it?"  John is tired, his voice a bit dull.  "What's wrong?"  He is too tired for more bad news.

"Nothing."  He sits down in one of the chairs, next to an end table where there are tissues and a bottle of water and a tacky, stiff flower arrangement.  "I heard what she said to you, about book club."  When John merely looks over, too tired to really generate any emotion, Sherlock makes a look of incredulous surprise.  "I thought perhaps you might like to punch something."

"You're not offering your face, I see," John says and a brief smirk appears, but it is quickly replaced by steely aggravation.  "She lied, she pretended to go one place instead of where she really was headed.  God, I even bloody drove her sometimes..."  He leaves the rest of the pain unspoken.  "To _him_."  John feels still somehow both angry and oddly detached, numb.  Leaning back against the high-backed chair, he lets his eyes close briefly, cuts back to Sherlock's face.  "I wasn't enough for her, obviously."

Sherlock's mouth opens, closes, opens again, and John is rather surprised that he is not, apparently, speaking his mind.  The restraint is uncharacteristic and, frankly, unsettling.

"Just say it."

"I don't want to speak ill of the dead."

 _Since when_ , John thinks.  "Yes, you do."  For gods sake, John himself did, too, at the moment, but wouldn't.  Maybe, he wonders, hearing it from someone else will validate his sensation of being so conflicted.

"Yes, I do," he admits, a bit of venom in his throat, "and I'm going to."  John eases into a chair, wanting to be out of the suit that is choking him, in slippers and sipping a tumbler of scotch watching crap telly on Baker Street.  He wanted Fiona healthy, wanted to bring her home, have her sleeping in the little upstairs bedroom with him, to attain some sort of normalcy for a change.  Sherlock says, "Mary was an idiot.  The biggest idiot of all idiots."  His voice lowers, "She had everything, could have enjoyed a life that many would have envied, and instead what did she do?"  John glances at the door, hoping that his voice is not carrying too far down the hall.  "She throws it all away, betrays you, _You!_ The honourable of all honourable.  She jeopardises everything, she risks your daughter, gambles it all.  And lost."

John's eyes are now wide at the atypical emotional outburst being displayed, and he touches Sherlock's knee.

Sherlock's cool-skinned hand comes down to cover John's mildly clammy one, and he settles himself, lowers his voice.  "While it's true that I'm disappointed she hurt you in the process, make no mistake:  I am glad to have you back."

They share a look, and John wonders if the hunger he can see in Sherlock's eyes is as obvious in his own.  The flare and catch of Sherlock's breath seems to imply that indeed they are sharing the response.

John has opted for no reception afterward, citing to the funeral director that his presence was needed much more at the NICU, where Fiona still breathed with assistance from the ventilator.  As the last attendees left the parlour at the end of the designated service hours, he told John to take as long as he needed, to let him know when he was leaving.  Sherlock stood quietly, hands clasped behind his back or working his mobile, simply watching.

John had only gathered a few things, under duress, to set on a table for those who came - a few pictures, her nursing license and vocational memorabilia, their wedding party photo, the framed one of he and Mary holding the ultrasound image.  He looks around the room one last time, the closed casket at the front, Mary's nursing graduation photo poised on the top, and the nausea rose again.  He'd refused to allow their wedding portrait to be displayed there, as it seemed too much, too many lies, too bloody hurtful to him, too blatant a transgression, a personal affront to him.

Sherlock is ready when John looks spent.  "We can go whenever you're ready."

Nodding, John frowns just a moment.  "He showed up, didn't he."  At one point in the afternoon, he'd looked up to find that Mycroft had disappeared but Sherlock never had moved, protective and loyal.  " _David_...?"  John's voice raises in pitch with the spoken word as he takes a guess, and Sherlock does not correct or contradict him.

"He did."  Sherlock watched John for signs of distress, saw only the question in his eyes, the one John had previously not wanted answered.  "Mycroft handled it."

The funeral director arrives then, a merciful interruption.  Or so they thought until he hands an envelope toward John.  Sherlock reaches out quicker, says, "I'll hang onto that for him, thank you."  He both takes and pockets the envelope with no further attention paid to it.  John looks from one to the other, figures it out that it contains her jewellery and personal effects, says nothing.  One of the assistants has boxed Mary's personal items and waits for them all to be ready.  There is a sad exhale and a desire to leave this place, to never return.

As they walk out to the waiting car, John can feel the gloved hand of his flatmate at the small of his back.  It feels like belonging, and, just as they arrive at the car, he turns quickly into Sherlock's personal space.  They are both holding various things in their hands, mobiles and papers and such, so the hug is not smooth.  It does however, give John the much-needed moment to whisper, "Thank you, I could never..." and the words trail off silently, but Sherlock can feel the shudder that shakes John's shoulders.  He understands.  His arms tighten, and he turns his head to let his lips just briefly press against John's silvery blond head.  It is enough.

++

The busyness of the next few days are helpfully numbing.  The lease on the flat he shares with Mary is completed, and John meets one of Mycroft's assistants there to quickly tag the few items he wants brought to Baker Street that are either his or the baby's.  There is very little, actually, of much he wants to keep for Fiona.  The rest, all of it, will be simply handled quietly and carefully, items repurposed, redistributed, or recycled.  John doesn't care.  The cot and baby items, the rest of John's belongings are shortly carried up the steps at 221b, but John superstitiously does not want to set up the cot immediately, until he's more sure that Fiona will, hopefully soon, be joining them.  Sherlock takes care of the details, surrendering keys, and officially informing a rather relieved and maternally-smiling Mrs. Hudson of their plans.

Fiona remains on the ventilator, and John visits, or John and Sherlock visit.  The baby some days is too irritable or tenuous for John to hold, on others she spends an hour or more tucked safely skin-against-skin into the recliner with staff assistance to help with lines, wires, ventilator circuits, and monitors.  On the days she is cot-bound, John sits at her bedside, talking to her occasionally, his large, gentle hands stroking and touching.  He finds she quiets when he speaks in higher tones, can be restless when his voice is a lower pitch.  Her pneumonia is still visible by chest xray as well as by exam, and the days blend into one another, with Sherlock observing John retreating and getting quiet.  Too quiet.  Sherlock is growing more frustrated with John's shell-like behaviour, his distance, his lack of engaging, until one morning, Sherlock has had quite enough of it, _thank you very much_.  

He brews tea, steels himself for a nearly-certain confrontation, goes upstairs to awaken John.  John grunts as Sherlock taps on the door, enters.  "I brought you tea," Sherlock says, cautiously.  They are strangers with each other, and have been for the last few days, trying to get a feel for this new normal of their awkward and uncomfortable lives.  While Sherlock recognises that John has absolutely suffered a life-trauma, he has had enough of him licking his proverbial wounds and withdrawing.  "Morning's nearly half over, by the way.  What time are you going over to visit Fiona?"

"I don't know."  John pulls the cover over his shoulder, rolls away from the doorway, away from Sherlock, away from life and responsibility and sadness. There is defeat in his voice that is new.  "Later."

"What is the matter with you today?"

"I'm tired.  I'm... " his voice trails off, and he hears the clunk of the teacup as it is set down next to his bed, can imagine the slosh of contents given the non-gentle landing.  "Just tired, is all."

"Well, I certainly hope Fiona doesn't choose today to give up hope, too."  His voice has taken a harsh edge to it, brutal even, and John turns quickly in bed to open a disbelieving eye at him.  "Enjoy your damn tea."  Sherlock considers slamming the door, for effect, decides a delicate click shut is in order and will annoy John more than the harsh closing would.  He wonders at John's reaction, would like to poke at him a bit more for sport and for his own good, but is optimistic that what he has already done will be enough.

John is left to the pounding of his heart, the emptiness of the room.  By the time he gets out of bed a few minutes later, Sherlock has already left the flat.  John thinks about texting him, and just as he decides not to, that he can stew in his own miserable juices all day, his mobile buzzes with an incoming text.

**Have a case on with the Met, might be a few long days ahead.  If you're not going to visit Fiona, let me know and I'll try to swing by so she doesn't feel _completely_ abandoned. SH**

Feeling the remotest bit passive aggressive and knowing he learned it from his master-manipulator flatmate, John chooses to not only leave the text unanswered, but unread, and heads to the hospital.

Fiona is in his arms when his mobile buzzes again, and by the time he gets around to checking it, his morning melancholy and malaise have gone completely.  Apparently Sherlock is still prickly, judging by the text message:   **If you manage to get your sorry arse out of the flat, we also need milk.  SH**

Irritated, John clenches his teeth, decides to respond without words.  Awkwardly, he flips his mobile camera around, takes a crooked selfie of he and mostly Fiona, the breathing tube and feeding tube visible, her eyes closed and the mitts over her fingers in the image.  He appreciates the fact that one of his irritated deep blue eyes seems to be glaring at the camera from a corner of the photo.   _Good._   _Send._  

After Fiona has been returned to her isolette, John decides to take a break, head back to the flat.  He picks up both milk and Sherlock's favorite ginger biscuits, and tosses ingredients for a simple dinner into the trolley as well.  He has just finished throwing a shepherds pie into the oven when Sherlock's big clumpy feet are unusually, intentionally loud on the steps.  They eye each other a few long seconds before Sherlock hangs up his Belstaff, settles into his chair with the folder he's carrying.

"Interesting case?"

"Not especially. Solved already."  He peruses the pages inside the folder but is actually more focused on John.  "How was your _day_?"

There is the slightest edge to his voice that John chooses to ignore.  He's had enough time to critically evaluate what Sherlock had orchestrated that morning, at least enough to cut him a bit of slack.  "She's about the same.  Put on a few grams from yesterday, barely worth mentioning."  John leans a shoulder against the wall between rooms, waits for Sherlock to at least look up at him.  When he does, John lets a look keep Sherlock pinned, then continues, "I haven't given up, by the way."

"I should hope not.  Your daughter is fighting, I would like to think she inherited that from you."

He thinks about reminding Sherlock that his past few weeks have been a nightmare, but bites back the words, knowing that Sherlock is quite aware.  "I needed a bit this morning, a few extra minutes."  John looks down toward his feet, sees his unadorned hand before slipping both hands into his pockets, out of sight.  "And apparently a small nudge to get moving today."  Sherlock's gaze has taken in the uncomfortable stance, the reminder of the removal of John's ring, the hesitation to admit any show of weakness.  He hears the thank you in what John isn't saying.

"You're welcome."  A barest hint of a smile is shared between them, and Sherlock continues.  "Supper smells ... acceptable."  John makes a face at his word choice.

"I was hoping you'd eat."  John clears his throat.  "After, I think I'll go back to the NICU for a bit, say goodnight."  He shrugs, and Sherlock can see the conflicting emotions in his eyes - his desire to see her and the sadness at her situation.

"I'll go with you," Sherlock says, an obvious agenda, something on his mind.  "And when we get home, we will set up the cot."  He waits for the furrow between John's brow and it doesn't take long to appear.  Before John can verbally protest, Sherlock speaks again, "She's coming home, and the longer you delay getting ready for that, the less you seem to believe it's going to happen."  He has arched an eyebrow, and John looks away.  "She doesn't know one way or t'other, but _you_ need to start making plans."

John considers his words, wants to argue that taking the cot down will be exquisitely painful if something happens and Sherlock is wrong.  He can feel the dryness in his throat, again, the constant presence of the fear he lives with.  Sherlock can see the dread, the various arguments and rationalisations play across John's face and can pinpoint the moment John decides not to take a stand.  "All right," he agrees.

In the NICU later, Fiona is irritable and grouchy, and the sound of John's voice seems only to aggravate her more.  Sherlock asks the nurse if the increase in restlessness could be due to the fact that she knows John is there and wants to be held.  Both John and the nurse turn skeptical eyes to the monitor, knowing her oxygen level was down with the elevated heart rate, the increased work of breathing evident in her abdomen, her posture as she lay.  "We see that sometimes, usually in older neonates."

Sherlock is obviously wondering about the benefits of John holding her again to calm her down.  "John fusses, too, until he gets what he wants," Sherlock offers.  " _I'm_ the good natured one of the two of us."  

John snorts but does not further editorialise.

The nurse eyes the monitor, pulling up the trends over the past day, opts to let the neonatologist make the final call as to the wisdom of kangaroo care at this point, whether it is in the best interest of the baby.  The phone conversation is quick.  "He gave it the thumbs up, but I will caution you that she's already a bit stressed, so it might be a quick trip out and back."

The kangaroo care that evening seems to quiet the baby down for a few minutes.  Unfortunately, it doesn't last long, and she returns to her restless behaviour from earlier, requiring more oxygen to maintain her saturations.  Fiona is returned to the isolette, and John kisses her as he surrenders her back to the care of the nurses.  She is medicated for pain and agitation, then seems to quiet down and settle.  Together, standing close enough that their arms are nearly touching, John and Sherlock watch her for a few minutes, and then, once she's comfortable, asleep, breathing easily, they return to Baker Street.

The cot is quickly assembled, upstairs in John's room, and he finds himself staring at it nervously.  Sherlock thinks he has strong-armed John enough for one day, and says, "Going to watch something lame on television, I'm sure, if you care to join me."

A furrow shows up again in John's brow, and Sherlock backtracks, reaches for one of the stuffed animals, puts it in the cot.  John smiles at the gesture, and says, "Until she's home."  John touches Sherlock on the back as they leave the room.  "That was a good idea."  Sherlock glances back from the doorway as John quietly acknowledges the help, says, "Thanks."

"I know you had bad things happen to you.  But you can't live your life expecting more of the same."  He looks over at John, his eyes hooded and darker than usual, then continues.  "I would like to think there are much better days ahead."

They sit side by side, just the edges of their knees touching, as the TV show drones on.

"What are we doing?" John asks in a timid voice.  Their eyes meet and hold again, the heat of the room and the awareness of the nearness of their bodies is entrancing.  

Sherlock's hands open, close, but he doesn't speak or move.  

It seems like a long time has passed, and John finally admits defeat, concedes the evening, thinks that perhaps he will just go on up to bed, try to sleep, his mobile either in his hand or under his pillow in case the hospital calls.  He is just about to speak, but the question that comes out instead of saying goodnight is surprising to them both.  "What do you want?"  John asks the question gently, seeking an honest answer, and his voice seems to startle Sherlock back to life.

"Truth?" he asks, and when John nods, he forges ahead. "I knew since before the pool what I wanted.  And then... and then it seemed you wanted Mary, that your life had taken a specific direction.  I backed off."

"And now...?"

"Nothing has changed for me.  I still want now what I wanted then.  In whatever form I can have you."  Sherlock looks away, and John can tell he is done communicating on that level.  He has offered more of himself in those few sentences than John would ever have expected.  "I should have thought the answer was obvious, given ... "  His eyes flick to John's mouth.  Nervously, John licks his lip while Sherlock watches.  They are both thinking of the stolen kisses - at the hospital, the almost angry ones on the bench, and later in Lestrade's office.

"It's complicated."  John stares at the floor, at his hands, at Sherlock's knee, and over at the window until he feels long fingers on his jaw, forcing the turn of his head until he sees the familiar eyes watching him, forcing his attention and denying him the means to avoid eye contact.

"Not really."  Sherlock has the slightly amused, one-sided smile just hinting on his face.  "It doesn't have to be."  His fingers are warm and strong as they hold John's face toward his, keeping him from turning away in discomfort.  

"I have a daughter.  And," he swallows, "some baggage."  An edge of his lip curls, "Trust issues, I've been told."

He reaches out a hand to return the touch against Sherlock's face, his cheek, his hair.  There is stubble and he wonders at the bow of Sherlock's upper lip with the pad of his finger.

The heat between them is building, every breath and glance and expression adding to the charged sexuality that is rising in the room.  John finds that he needs to know something before he lets his mind decide how to proceed, this new territory.  "Sherlock," he hedges, begins again, "have you ever?"  Sherlock is completely still until John continues, "been with someone?"  At the clarification, he shakes his head while looking away uncomfortably and awkwardly.  John feels bad for his insecurity, decides to forge ahead a bit.  Sherlock is giving off enough nervous energy there on the couch that John is afraid he might bolt.  He places a hand steadyingly over Sherlock's knee, hoping it is calming, and waits.  The touch is soothing, settling him much like the medications had calmed Fiona earlier.  John's hand is strong and solid as Sherlock eases his own hand overtop it.  "Can I," John begins, leaning over and easing slowly closer, "kiss you again?"

There are hands drawing then, legs pressed together, bodies angling toward one another, and lips finally meeting.  John is surprised that so quickly there are tongues and heat and definite sexual frustration so rampant and evident between them.  John feels Sherlock's stuttering pulse under his hand, the catch of his breath, the tightness of his shoulders even as Sherlock's hands seem searching and seeking and _finding_.  He is even more surprised when Sherlock slowly and resolutely pulls away, and more than just physically.  "Sherlock?"  The physical loss is strong, but the emotional tie that is disconnecting is almost harder and more personal.

He is answered first with an inhalation and exhalation of restraint, a big deep breath designed primarily to slow a racing heartrate.  The hesitancy is gone, and he is confident. "We are not going to rush."

John stares.  "Of course not.  I know."

The room is cooler, and John can feel pounding in his chest as if he is missing something.  Sherlock leaves one hand against John's chest, comes closer to press another kiss then a lick into his mouth, but it is different this time, and he sits back again.  "Too important to rush."

"I'm not sure five years would be considered rushing by anyone's standards."

Sherlock's mouth tightens, John sees, and then he knows Sherlock is fighting himself.  "I refuse to take advantage of you."  He snaps eyes onto John's face, takes in the flush of his face, the signs of arousal, knows John would agree to whatever Sherlock is offering.  John knows it too.  "Not now.  Not tonight."

"Sherlock," John protests, ready to launch an argument.

"You still carry guilt over the accident, which on every level was not. Your. Fault.  I am not compounding anything that you could remotely use to feel unnecessary guilt going forward."  He seems unruffled on the exterior, but John watches his bounding carotid pulse and the slightest tap of his foot against the floor, knows that he is struggling too.

"I don't see this as entirely your call to make here, you know.  But fine, it's all right."  He stands up anyway, deciding not to push back any further.  Deep down, he knows Sherlock is right, that he is in a vulnerable position, and that waiting is not only acceptable but wise.  "I guess now's as good a time to tell you as any," and _that_ statement gets his attention.  He hesitates.  "Got a little more motivated this morning, made a few phone calls.  I have a job interview tomorrow. If I get it, I would start with some limited hours at Sarah's new practice, not far.  Locum physician to begin, and if things work out, hopefully by the time," he can't help the nervous swallow his voice mandates in order to continue, "Fiona is ready to come home, I'll have a steady position.  And time to line up a nanny."  Sherlock is quiet as John says goodnight, heads up the stairs.  John's back, however, is barely turned when a genuine relieved smile appears on Sherlock's face and doesn't disappear for a long while.

++

John has a frank discussion with the neonatologist the next morning about what his thoughts and expectations are for Fiona, how long he suspects she will remain on the ventilator, in the hospital, her overall prognosis.  The doctor is cautiously optimistic, he says with those exact words that John recognises as actually rather hopeful, that Fiona will continue to do well.  She is slowly, he reminds John, gaining a bit of weight, responding to the antibiotics, overall tolerating minimal activity for longer periods of time.  Most importantly, he reminds John that she shows no neurologic impairment or compromise.  John briefly shares his concerns about finances, explains his plans, and the doctor affirms that John is certainly safe to go off to work, that he will keep John updated as needed. The cautionary statement that in the NICU they take one day at a time is unnecessary, but the doctor reminds John of that anyway. 

After visiting Fiona a bit longer, John tracks Sherlock down at the Met, to discuss John's short-term future plans.  He asks, for a little while, that Sherlock be somewhat available in case something happens while John is at work, as an emergency contact, that perhaps he could be willing to see to the baby in the NICU if John gets delayed.  On a limited basis, Sherlock has already been working an occasional case with Lestrade, doing quite a bit remotely, and seems to think Fiona will be fine.  "But, if it makes you feel better, more prepared, of course I can be reached if something were to occur."

The interview later is a smashing success, and John is offered the job with an almost immediate start date.  Sherlock is not surprised at all when John tells him about it, and has decided that he could even work a bit from the hospital for the first few days, until John is more comfortable with the arrangement.  The shifts are short, relatively easy, with a fairly flexible schedule and office staff, but the first few days, John is almost twitchy for some sort of regular updates, and when he sends the sixth text to Sherlock asking if things are all right, they come up with a new plan.  Sherlock decides he will try to keep John informed when he is at work, embraces the adage that no news is good news.  The texts are reassuring and almost comical at times.  

**Nurse tricked me into changing a nappy today.  Shan't be doing that again. SH**

**She's more awake today. SH**

**Only one dose of morphine since I've been here. SH**

**I think her eyes are darker today than yesterday - text me a close up photo of your eye color for comparison. SH**

**She lasted longer on her wean today than yesterday, 25 minutes before needing vent changes. SH**

**My brother stopped by, the nurses wouldn't let him in, it was _glorious_. SH**

The texts help quite a bit, and John flourishes in the new job, the escape to normalcy helping his perspective, his outlook.  And then near the end of a shift his second week back in the office, there was a flurry of incoming messages that took John's breath away.  He'd been in the middle of a patient appointment, trying hard to stay focused, but when the second and third alerts vibrated, he politely interrupts the exam of the patient to check his mobile.

The first one is harmless.   **I've just arrived at the nursery, she's very awake today, there is discussion of another weaning trial.  SH**

**Your misbehaving daughter has managed to pull out her breathing tube.  SH**

**She's on CPAP again.  SH**

Very quickly, a few other texts arrive, and John finds himself holding his breath as he scans them quickly.

**She's ok, the doc is here. SH**

**Oxygen levels are stable, but she is breathing fast, call me when you can. SH**

John excuses himself completely from the patient, sees Sarah in the hallway and speaks her name as he strides into his own office, already dialing.

Sherlock answers on the first half-ring.  "She's okay," he says quickly.  "Don't rush over, finish up there, John.  They're going to watch her, they used the phrase 'see if she can fly on her own'."

John's own breath catches, as, of course, he recognises the lingo.  There were times he had termed it "pull and pray" when he'd recommended extubation of a soldier in the military hospital when all weaning criteria had not quite been met, but the time seemed right.  It had been a gamble that had sometimes paid off.  Today, John is worried about survival and wants to see for himself that she is all right.  "How's she look right now?  Distressed?"  His own voice is shaky and thinly quiet.

"Take a deep breath.  Hang on," and John hears some background noise and then his phone alert vibrates in his hand.  Sherlock has sent him a photo of Fiona, on her CPAP, laying in the isolette.  Visible in the picture is Sherlock's hand, which looks enormous by comparison.

"That's nice, actually, to see."  He draws the phone away again, peers intently, can't tell of course the level of distress in the still image.  "I can leave now if needed, of course, Sherlock."

"Your call, and I understand.  But I'm not getting the sense that you should, she's okay."  There is background noise and John can feel his heart pounding.  "We'll see you when you get here.  I'll call immediately if anything changes."  More voices, and then Sherlock continues, "The doc is nodding that you can wait a bit, it's not like you're going to be _that_ long.  I'm here, and she's holding her own right now."

Sarah is waiting there at the doorway of his office for an update.  "I'll see if I can rearrange things, and I'll finish what I've started.  I'll be quick."  Sarah is perceiving that the urgency is less than it might've been, checks the rest of John's appointments as he says in an almost pleading tone, "You'll call me if anything starts to look bad?"

Sarah has already evaluated the remainder of John's patients, takes two that will require longer visits, let's John finish the others, and the final appointment minutes take an eternity.  John forces himself to focus, but is finally done.  He texts Sherlock only that he was on his way, and was everything all right.  It was a quick texted reply:   **See you soon, doing ok. SH** He power walks through the hospital corridors, ringing the bell for admittance to the NICU and is promptly buzzed inside.

The sink is of course his first stop and he glances over through the windowed walls toward where Fiona has lived for the last weeks.  

Her isolette is empty.  

His hand goes immediately to his pocket, checking for his mobile, the lifeline between the hospital and himself, thinking it has been lost, misplaced, or has lost all service.  He can feel the nausea that plagued him in her earliest days of NICU hell, before the ventilator, when Mary's condition was determined irreversible, when they'd rushed from the crime scene to the hospital in a police car.  The physician in him knows that, given the time from when Sherlock had last messaged him that has elapsed, if something had happened they would still be working on her.  His mind unhelpfully supplied that they could have gone to the OR suite, the procedural room for a chest tube ...

Knowing he needs access, he works the brush over his hands, the soap, the warm water, the ritual entry requirement.  He sees that the nurse is across the room at the station of monitors and computers.  She has noticed his arrival, smiles, nods in his general direction and is not alarmed.  Deep breath, Watson.  

His eyes cut to the recliner next to her empty isolette.  Sherlock is holding her.  

_Sherlock.  Is holding her._

_Hello._

He finishes the scrub - uncaring that he has probably short-changed the suggested time by a few seconds - dried quickly, and blows out a shaky breath as he crosses the room, his shoes sounding loudly on the lino floor in his barely-suppressed urgency.

Sherlock is in the recliner chair, his shirt open, the baby awake, eyes open.  Her fist is in her mouth.  Surprised eyes look first at Sherlock to gauge _his_ level of distress, finds it fairly low although he isn't particularly comfortable - shoulders tight, arms tense, on high alert - but the baby is tucked in sweetly against his sternum.  There is minimal chest hair but toned musculature under the pale skin.  His eyes take in a brief glance at the monitor - heart rate and respiratory rate not terribly unchanged, oxygen levels holding nicely on the CPAP.

"Apparently she was fed up with you refusing to hold her," John says, trying to be light about it.  "The girl knows how to get what she wants."

An eyebrow raises, and Sherlock glances down at Fiona to see that she is breathing unobstructed before turning the irritated expression to John.  "She and I will be having words about it, when she is better."  Sherlock then watches silently as John stares hard at Fiona, taking in her overall status and work of breathing.  His eyes then go back to study the bedside monitor, where he watches her heart rate and respiratory rate, the trends of oxygen levels and capnography.  Cautiously, he barely looks at Sherlock as he eases into the wide chair next to him, reaching out a timid hand to come up under the blanket on top of Sherlock's hand.  Fiona's skin is warm and soft in between Sherlock's fingers, and she is just a bit diaphoretic.

"Has she been this clammy?"

"This is a bit better, actually."  Sherlock is a little surprised at how relieved he is that John is present, and he lets the vigilance and tension leave.  It was surprising the depth of discontent he'd had until John had arrived, despite what he'd said, and how much better he felt now that they were both present, to help keep an eye on things.  "You want her now?"

John smiles, looks fondly at the pair in the chair, the tenderness in his flatmate as he looks at Fiona that probably no one else has ever seen, in his opinion.  He categorises the contradiction in their differences - both fair, but one big, one tough, one fragile, one tenuous, both loved.   _Loved_.  He tables that thought, that realisation, for a moment.  "Of course I want her, but I wouldn't risk moving her right now."

He is still unable to peel his eyes away when the nurse comes over with an apologetic look on her face, gives John a mostly-unneeded update.  "She was determined to get that tube out, apparently," she offers to John.  "Mitts on and everything."

Even Sherlock is chuckling at the humour of the nurse as she lightly chides Fiona, completely teasing of course, at her misbehaving.  "You think this is bad, John, wait till she starts bringing home boys she wants to date.  This is _nothin_ '," she says, and then describes briefly her own rebellious teenage daughter.

They check Fiona's position against Sherlock, the oxygen tubing, the monitors, and decide she is comfortable and safe.  John watches the numbers, watches Sherlock, finally takes a deep breath, exhales, and leans his head back against the chair.

Sherlock moves his hands, supporting the baby but freeing up one to reach down for John's leg to get his attention, connect on some level with him now that he has relaxed and is receptive.  "I told you," he begins, "that she'd be all right.  And that she was a fighter like you."

Smiling at Sherlock's words, he is relieved to be with them both.  "I'm glad you were here."

"She was quick with her hand.  I'm concerned there will be no stopping her."  They share a curious glance, wondering about exactly what Fiona's personality may be like.  She's been so unstable that John hadn't given it too much thought, but for now, he thinks a strong-willed daughter may be a benefit as she navigates this rough beginning.

Fiona seems to sleep for a while there against Sherlock, and eventually the nurse takes care of her feedings again with the feeding tube, as her head is elevated against Sherlock's chest.  The nurse has gone back over to the central station when Sherlock's eyes widen and he makes a bit of a squeak which catches John's attention.

"What is it?"

"She's ... _John_!"

John has to lean forward to see what has alarmed him, and he can't stop the bubble of laughter that comes, then.  Wide awake now, her lips are brushing against him, her head turning just a bit side to side.  She is _rooting_ against his collarbone, her lips and mouth touching his skin lightly.

"Reflex.  It's normal."  He shrugs casually, but rapidly pulls out his mobile to snap a photo before Sherlock can demand he delete it immediately.  "Hell no, that photo's mine now."  He thinks about nuzzling Sherlock's neck, too, in a very different manner, keeps the inappropriate observation to himself.  Instead, John finds the dummy in the corner of her isolette, hands it over.

Sherlock watches Fiona take it, and inhales into her wispy hair that peeks out from under a knitted hat.  "I'm thinking, Fiona Watson, that between your shenanigans and your father's, I may just have my hands full."  His words are softly spoken, but his eyes twinkle _loudly_ as he looks over at John. 

++

The mobile doesn't leave John's hand until he goes to take a shower later that night, and he sets it carefully down next to Sherlock in case something happens.

"She was fine when we left."  Sherlock tries to assure him.  "I'm sure she will stay out of further mischief while you're in the sodding shower."

He seems unsure, and when he returns to the sitting room clad in only pyjama pants, holding a towel, he asks anxiously if he'd heard anything.  

Sherlock looks up at him as if the boredom has never been more problematic.  "The hospital called, yes.  To tell you that you're an idiot."

"Sherlock.   _Not nice_."

He lets only his eyes dart from what he is reading to John's face.  "Name's Sherlock Holmes, apparently we've never been properly introduced."  The berk doesn't even hold out a hand in his cheeky, mocking greeting.  "She's _fine._ "

John finishes towel drying his hair, perches nervously on the arm of the couch staring at the television and then at Sherlock and then at his mobile.  He is keyed up, and sighs.  "Maybe I'll go back over, spend the night."

"You have work tomorrow."

"Yes, but if I'm not sleeping, I may as well..."

"John.  Stop it."  Sherlock puts the journal aside, leans forward on his elbows as he stares at John.  "When you tell patients or families things, do you expect them to listen to you, follow instructions?"  His brow goes up, and he continues, "Do you expect them to trust you?"

An eye narrows as he feels his profession about to convict him of disobedience, knowing where Sherlock was going with this, and answers tentatively.  "I do, yes."

"They told you they would call.  They are taking care of your daughter."  He waits for John to nod in agreement.  "I am taking care of you tonight.  You have eaten, bathed, and are now ready for bed.  Mostly, anyway."  There is a bit of a wink and a smirk as he looks quickly at John's bare chest.  His tone is borderline silly, ridiculously parental, and condescendingly arrogant.  He maintains a serious expression while John relaxes enough to chuckle at his approach.  "You may call the hospital now for an update, a brief one and just this once, so you don't keep the nurses from doing what they are very competently focused on doing, and not _coddling_ you over the phone."

Sherlock stops there, waits for John to do as instructed, and he makes the call while a slight flush creeps up his chest, neck, and into his cheeks.  It is clear that the update is that there is no change, she is the same, holding her own.  Even the short distance away, Sherlock can hear John being reminded that they will call him if anything changes.

"Very good," he says to John as the call disconnects, and John almost gives him the two fingered salute.  Both of them find it funnier that John managed to hold back the unfortunately rather familiar, rude gesture, and they share a fleeting smile.  "I will go on over to the nursery tomorrow, try to get a few things done from there, work a bit.  You can expect one text message and one photo when I arrive, unless there is something more newsworthy to report."

"Fine."  Just these simple reminders Sherlock has issued are helpful, and John is yet again grateful that he is not navigating this alone.  There is interesting relief in being told what is happening, of having the need for choosing removed.  He had done it for John immediately after the accident, and was not afraid to do it again.  It is as effective now.

"I hope she is not nearly as needy as you are."

"You know," John says with an exaggerated drawing out of the word and his inflection, "she will likely be high maintenance for a few weeks after she comes home."

There is an odd light in Sherlock's eyes.  "I like the way that sounded - _home_."

John smiles, the little crinkles around his eyes making Sherlock want to smile in return, so he does.  "Home for me," John begins, and his voice is quiet and introspective, "I think, has always been with you."  John holds his mobile, watches Sherlock try to keep his eyes above his neck and fail.  "I've been told I'm ready for bed."

The room is growing warmer by the moment, and John exploits his lack of shirt, closes the gap between he and Sherlock.  Something has been murmured that sounds a bit like 'have mercy,' and John grins, takes Sherlock's head between his hands, commandeers him in a strong hold, for a snog.

"Interested in joining me?"  He keeps his voice low, quiet, and the words linger and hover in the room like thick, dense fog.

John is sure that Sherlock is going to decline, protest, and has almost resigned himself to plodding up the stairs by himself.  He is surprised when Sherlock stands, smiles, and agrees.  "Of course.  My room."

It only ends up being a few kisses before Sherlock scoots to the far side of the bed.  "Sleep, John."  John is shocked, remains silent, and thinks to himself he will never fall asleep.  Until the alarm wakes him up, and he is quite alone with the other half of the bed unoccupied and cold.

++

The flat is empty. There is a note on the table confirming plans for the day, and John keeps a keen awareness of the phone as he goes to work.  The photo, when it finally arrives, is of Fiona awake, her arm up over her head, hand clenched in a fist.  She is not crying in the picture but clearly unhappy.  The promised text from Sherlock simply reads **Ready for a cuddle, John. SH**

Before he can think better of it and talk himself out of it, he fires off, **I was willing last night but you moved.  Tonight?**

The silence after that was almost deafening, and John's office visits and tasks help distract him from the unanswered text.  A bit later in the morning, his mobile buzzed as he received another, **They want to try bottle feeding her. Should they wait for you? SH**

**No. You could do it if you want.**

There is no more communication, his earlier response to the cuddling comment leaving him nervously wishing he hadn't mentioned it.  John is running a bit later than he would prefer, but comes through the door to find Sherlock in the rocking chair this time, Fiona in his arms.  He has a wild "something happened" look in his eyes, which alarms John a bit, and when the nurse comes over, John steels himself for more bad news.

"What is it?" John asks.

"Bit of apnea, then some bradycardia.  Not unexpected."  The nurse fills him in, reminds him that almost all preemies will have some "A's and B's" in the NICU.  She explains that the monitors signal average very quickly, and that is their purpose, to alert them to any changes.  Her manner and explanations and experience have John feeling somewhat better by the end of the discussion, reminding him that apnea during a feeding is more common than when not feeding.  It's the ones that occur when not feeding, like Fiona's today, that they consider true apneic events, although they monitor all of them.  John finally nods and says a sincere thanks to her.  She laughs then, and tells him that if Sherlock ever wanted a volunteer opportunity, he could certainly be useful in the NICU holding preemies.

"What's that supposed to mean?" John asks.

The nurse simply grins again, checks Fiona's monitor leads, and pats Sherlock on the head as she leaves.  He scowls at her back as she walks away.

John's face morphs from patiently waiting to _impatiently_ waiting.  " _Sherlock_."

"I could feel it.  The apnea.  Before it happened, her pattern changed, her chest was different, her muscle tone.  I had just called out to the nurse, and after that was when the alarms sounded and they came rushing right over.  It was quickly resolved, like she said."

"But you knew it before anything was even registering different."

"It _was_ different.  I could feel it."

"That doesn't surprise me, that you're obviously more perceptive, and quicker, than a heart monitor.  Predictive, even."

Succinctly, matter-of-factly, Sherlock issues an order with a head raising gesture.  "Unbutton.  I'm surrendering her."  John chuckles but does what he asks, keeping his eyes on Sherlock as if questioning for more information.  The look Sherlock gives back is simply one of discomfort.  "She frightened me."  His tone is light but the message is not.

"I think that's what parenthood is."  John gets ready, sets his things down, and between them they manage to pass Fiona from one man to the other.  Once John is seated and arranged, he speaks again.  "Go, then.  I'm good here."

Sherlock's face is unreadable.  "I can stay.  I don't mind."

"No need."

"John."

"I'm taking you to dinner.  Go rest up."  When Sherlock still looks uncertain, John assures him, "It's all right.  No pressure.  No expectations."

"Your text message earlier..."  John lets him struggle a bit at completing the sentence, and was just about to speak up when Sherlock quietly finished, "I'd like that."

"All right.  Me too."

"Actually," he raised his eyes from the floor to see John watching him, "I'd like quite a bit more than that."

"Dinner first."  John reminds himself not to get his hopes up.  Sherlock is too important, and perhaps a bit too nervous, to make any concrete plans beyond that. "Then we'll see."

++

John would have been hard-pressed to recall the evening at Angelo's, whether they were at "their table" (they were not), anything about the meal (irrelevant trivia), the presence of a candle (yes until it ran out of oil), and anything Angelo said (inquired after the baby and reminded them dinner was, again, gratis).  He has a vague recollection of calling the NICU for what has become a nightly expectation, a touchpoint that will allow him to eventually go to bed without the distinct worry about his daughter.

He would also find himself sketchy on the details of their return walk to Baker Street, the streets they must've crossed, the strangers they passed, the shops that were winding down sales for the day.  If pressed, he would likely remember the nervous anxiety as Sherlock pressed him up against the wall just inside the doorway of 221b, the Belstaff flaring and intimidating. He would most assuredly recall that Sherlock emitted a deep, guttural groan when John wrapped his arm behind Sherlock's belt, pulling them together, hardnesses melding and pressing, muscles twitching.

He will _always remember_ the moment, however, that they slide between the sheets in Sherlock's room having awkwardly stripped to only pants, a dim lamp casting a soft glow as John pushes Sherlock onto his back.  The light falls carefully on dark curls over wide-eyed pale blue eyes, and the uncertainty there is a poignant reminder to John to proceed slowly.  He keeps his hands above Sherlock's neck at first, touching ear, cheek, running his thumb over the full lower lip.  Up on one elbow, John lets Sherlock feel and experience some obviously new sensations as John summons deep inner restraint and slows the pace.  Sherlock's muscle tone is tense, coiled, a panther ready to pounce, and once he feels Sherlock's mounting frustration in both breathing and the movements of Sherlock's hips that he can't quite keep still, he draws back from him just a bit.  Sherlock's lips are flushed with desire and set in an open invitation, but his eyes seek out John's in a questioning complaint.

"Can I...?" John begins.

Sherlock interrupts, "Yes."

John thinks briefly about fussing at his agreement without knowing exactly what John was asking, decides that this is Sherlock when he's trying something new.  So instead, he presses his lips again into Sherlock's and lets his hand wander down from the angle of Sherlock's jaw, down the graceful neck and over his clavicle.  When Sherlock has a sharp intake of breath as John's hand encompasses his pectoral muscle, nipple between his fingertips, John hesitates, stills there to enjoy the twitch of the muscle and the erratic respiratory pattern.

"More," Sherlock says arching into the touch.  His hand slides up to cover John's, pressing insistently.

"I would call you bossy except that you already know that."

"Shut up."  It is a quietly issued statement, and John can't help but chuckle, as it is just a phrase that Sherlock never says.  It is a barometer of his emotional state, John thinks.  It is confirmed when Sherlock slides sideways in the bed toward John, stops when he finally feels John's skin, legs, belly come in contact with himself.  "Off," he demands, nudging at his pants-covered pelvis.

"You are not in charge here," John protests, moving away from him a small distance.  To compensate for that loss, John squeezes with his hand, making the nipple peak and tighten, then slides to the other, repeats the movement and earns another gasp from Sherlock.  He replaces his hand with his mouth, flicking lightly the pebbled nub with tongue then teeth and hears another low rumble in Sherlock's chest.

" _John, please_ ," is the next whisper, and John smiles to himself.  He can tell Sherlock's nervousness has been replaced with a very intense physical longing, a need, a chasing of release.  Sliding his fingers into Sherlock's waistband, he removes the remaining article of clothing, and it only takes a few strokes with a firm hand before Sherlock's keening cry of release and utterly abandoned pleasure fills the bedroom.  Only a few moments go by before Sherlock leans up on an elbow to stretch a long arm out to encircle John's throbbing shaft.  John presses closer, his hips stuttering as the muscle group aches with holding back, until Sherlock manages to somehow get his other hand into the mix, grasping and pressing with long fingers on John's entire length.  He has a drive to be John's undoing as well.  "Let go," he finally says, "show me," and it is the final urging, " _come_ for me," that finally plunges John into a long and shuddering orgasm.

++

Fiona continues to make slow progress.  One day John finds her in a regular bassinette instead of the isolette, as her temperatures have been holding as she has finally mastered auto-regulation.  He receives a mid-day phone call, and listens to the voicemail between patients, where he learns that Fiona has managed to yet again pull out her feeding tube, and the neonatologist tells him that this time it will not be reinserted.  When John arrives later that day, the nurse explains that she has been showing more of her strong temperament over the last few days.  He feels the slightest twinge of nausea when she reacts to his voice by fussing until he picks her up.  If he didn't know better he would have thought Fiona's expression smug.  The nurse claps him on the shoulder, laughing and telling him, "Good luck, mate.  Gonna need it!"

Fiona takes to the bottle fairly well, although over the next few days does not gain any weight with her new feeding regimen and calorie requirements.  Because she is now solely bottle fed, she expends energy to eat, so her weight increase plateaus, which he has been assured is normal and expected, and will resume within a few days, which it does.  She is weaned off oxygen completely, and transfers to the high-dependency care nursery.  She starts to have less periods of apnea and bradycardia.  One of the nurses asks John to bring in a car seat so that, eventually, Fiona can be tested for stability while sitting in it.

The neonatologist is waiting for John one morning, on one of John's days off.  He doesn't mince words.  "She's thriving, finally.  Passed all screenings to qualify for discharge.  Pneumonia is cleared on radiology films.  Tomorrow, John," he says with smiling confidence, "your daughter goes _home_ with you."  

Any words stick in John's throat, and he is silent because he doesn't wish to sob.  He pictures the cot and the stuffed animal and he and Sherlock.  The domesticity of it all overwhelms him.

The process is cumbersome as expected, with health visitors appointments and an abundance of monitoring equipment, that the nurses demo, teach, and then have John return demonstrate all steps of the procedures.  They are finally ready.

And soon, with two nervous men and a very excited, hovering honourary grandmama and landlady, Fiona comes home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, liberties have been taken with NICU procedures, although self-extubation does occasionally work out very well indeed. That little Fiona, already using extreme measures to get what she wants. I suspect she will fit right in with some of the manipulation that Baker Street has already seen.
> 
> I have edited my edits and am to the point where I'm needing a break from this chapter so please let me know if something doesn't seem to flow right or if I missed a typo.


	6. The Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one, but deserving of it's own bittersweet attention.
> 
> ~~~~~
> 
> Thanks to all who have read and expressed such kind support for this story so far!

Fiona has been home on Baker Street for about two weeks when a package is delivered. It is addressed to Sherlock, but from his place at the table, quickly and without looking, Sherlock declares it is for Fiona and that John should open it.  Fiona is asleep after yet another feeding, in her tiny infant seat, her head aligned against a rolled up blanket.  This one is a soft bumble-bee print from Mycroft that earned a scathing scowl from Sherlock.  She is, of course, wearing the apnea monitor, and at the moment it is blessedly silent.  John is amused by his contradictory feelings about the apnea monitor - he hates when the alarm goes off yet is extremely grateful for its presence to alert him when Fiona's condition warrants his immediate attention.  Unsurprisingly, he is lightning quick in response time, at the first sound of the alarm, springing from the bed or wherever he is in the flat to reach her.

He sits down with the box, takes a sip of tea, then slits the packing tape.  From within a carefully padded shipping container, John unwraps then removes a small-sized wooden chest.  It is deep, rich cherry, finely crafted, and well-made.  The wood is highly polished and shiny.  John sets it on the table and idly brushes a finger over the sculpted, glossy edges.

"Beautiful," he says. "From you?"  Sherlock doesn't answer the question, and John shrugs and breathes, "Of course it is."

"Open it."  If John had been looking, he would have seen that Sherlock was somber, his blue eyes guarded and cautious.

John glances over at the baby to assure himself that she is well, then raises the lid carefully.  He finds that he is glad he is already sitting down.  Under the lid, the cutouts of Mary's hand tracings have been mounted inside, framing a mirror on the box's top. The blue and green shapes are under anti-reflective thin glass and the nearly seamless smooth top is dignified and carefully constructed.  "Oh my god," John breathes.  He hasn't even fully opened the lid to an upright position, but he does now.  His hand settles next to it as he stares.

Inside the box, a _jewellery_ box, he clarifies to himself, are various velvet squares and ridges to hold small, precious items.  In the center of the charcoal-coloured fabric is another section, a glass box, with three rings arranged inside, sealed within mitered corners and secured with a pale teal satin ribbon.  They lean together, artfully arranged next to each other without crowding.  John recognises them immediately, of course - his and Mary's wedding bands, Mary's solitaire.  John considers the emptiness of the symbols they stand for - fidelity - and knows that, for the ache that still remains, something good had come of it:  Fiona.  Well, Fiona, and being back on Baker Street.

He closes the lid as well as his eyes, sits back in the chair with his hand resting on the top of the box.  "I don't know what to say to that, Sherlock," John murmurs.  He can feel his heart pounding, his skin tingling, his mind on high alert.   _"Thank you,_ " and he looks now directly over at Sherlock who is studying him, unsure and worried.  "It's beautiful.  Fiona will love it."

Sherlock's voice is heavy and a trace rough.  "I never meant for it to be hurtful to you, and I can see..."

John is shaking his head.  "No, no.  It's perfect," he interrupts.  "I had wondered where the rings had gotten to."  He lifts the lid again, rubs his finger along the glass case over the polished platinum rings.  "Honouring and in good taste."  He glances up at Sherlock, smiling genuinely, and is pleased to see some of the nervousness abate.  John relaxes, himself, as the appropriateness of the thoughtful gift idea takes root, and he finds he _truly likes it_.  "I appreciate your doing this, obviously custom.  Your design?"  He waits to see Sherlock's small nod.  "It's beautiful," he says again.  He pulls open the lower drawer as he speaks, and inside finds something else, pulls out the item.  It is a rose-gold necklace, in a short child's length, with a matching, glittering charm.  The charm has the same ridges as both wedding bands, the same scalloped edge to it, and John's finger turns the pendant over.  He reads the engraving, the baby's full name, Fiona Jane Watson, along with her date of birth.  "God, Sherlock.  You're already spoiling her rotten."

"I hardly think a jewellery box and a necklace is grounds to label her spoiled."  Sherlock is still looking more pensive than John was expecting, and he turns his eye back to the box, notices a small trigger pin in the border of the box, close to the hinge.

"Oi, a music box?" he says softly, mostly to himself, turning the piece up on it's side to find the mechanism, winds it up.  He rights it, opens the top, and notes begin to sound.

The emotion of the morning, the poignant sweetness of the gift has just been thoroughly and completely outdone.  Swallowing hard, John reminds himself to breathe over the angst in his chest.  John leaves the box alone, untouched, music playing, brings his hands to his face, remembering.

Somehow, Sherlock has managed to give Fiona a one-of-a-kind, musical jewellery box.  It is playing the waltz he'd written and performed for her parents' special dance, at their wedding.

The melody continues, and John listens to the song he hasn't heard in many months but the familiarity envelopes him with nostalgia.  In his mind, there is much less Mary and thankfully more Sherlock - the dancing lessons, the preparations, the playing, the violin, the speech, the vow.  It is the melodic strains of their friendship - the cases, to the companionship, to the intimacy.  The gift is exactly what John didn't know he needed - a memorial, a tribute, a cairn.  It acknowledges the unavoidable, inescapable past while looking with hope to the very promising future.  Their future.

John can feel his breath catch, the hitch of the shaky set of his shoulders.  He tells himself that the hint of moistness under his eyelids, the rapid blinking, the thrum of his pounding heart, is at least partially due to sleep deprivation, the stress of bringing home a premature, still slightly fragile baby, the life events of the past months, his leave of absence from work.  But honestly, he knows it is far more than that, more than exhaustion or stress.  It is immersion in the life-changing knowledge of what he has found in Sherlock, who has just given him something with far more meaning than a simple gift.

Overwhelmed, John manages to stand to his feet to cross the room, where Sherlock slowly rises as well, arms reaching out tenderly as John approaches.  The comforting embrace that follows starts off very reassuring, secure, and peaceful.  After a few moments, John lets his hand steal into Sherlock's curls, pulls his face toward his own and tilts his jaw as their breath mingles.  Their lips meet, warmly gentle at first, then firmer, deeper.

"Perfect," John whispers as Sherlock's arms tighten around him.  "Utterly perfect."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Jane seemed a fitting middle name, a variant of John in case you've wondered.
> 
> The resolution is coming. Closure. And sweetness. And smut. Oh, most definitely some of that. I think the boys deserve it.


	7. Full Circle, Indeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll apologize just a little bit for the domestic fluff at the end of the chapter.

 

Mostly, Fiona's earliest days out of the hospital left John too tired to do much, too exhausted for more than hovering between worry and fatigue.  Meeting the needs of a just home premature baby didn't leave much time for sleeping.  He finds himself staring at Sherlock often, wondering how he had trained his body to need so little sleep.  Dreams, when they came, were disjointed at best.

Fiona is a few months old, when John's dream mixes an Afghanistan trauma code, Sherlock on the rooftop at Barts, and a ticking bomb that is ready to explode.  Heart racing, John awakens confused, dazed, panicked, his skin sweaty and cool.  He isn't sure if he was under attack or personally threatened or if his family was in peril and he sits up ready for action of some sort.  He is just disoriented enough to wonder if he is still needed in surgery when he recognises the apnea monitor has just sounded.  The tone stops, and he blows out a deliberate breath, lays back down, skin tingling with catecholamines, eyes wide in the darkened room lit only from a glowing amber nightlight in the hall.  Some of the earlier alarms did require stimulation to get her to breathe, wake up, but most had not.  This one obviously had resolved spontaneously, but he knew he would go check her anyway.  Sliding out a leg, he finds that Sherlock's side of the bed is warm, and John tries to calm his heart rate and breathing as he listens through the baby monitor to hear carpet-muffled footsteps in Fiona's room and Sherlock whispers "shh."  He can hear the tabs on the nappy, the rustling of fabric, and smiles to himself for all the times he has heard Sherlock complain about the mundane baby chores while trying to foist them off on John.  He is usually successful.  John, in fact, doesn't mind it.  Not a bit.  But Sherlock, obviously, is attending to what Fiona needs.

There is the slightest creak of the glider rocker, and John pictures the upstairs bedroom full of his very life, his two biggest reasons for existence.  And his reason for exhaustion, too, come to think of it.  Lately, of course, it has been the smaller one interrupting his sleep, although the bigger one tends to be somewhat nocturnal, as well.  Some days, it seems that John's return to work and the continuing needs of Fiona tax them both to their limits.  There is additional murmuring through the monitor, but John is unable to make out the words, and the grainy video monitor shows only the empty cot.  He lays in the bed, the physical fatigue settling over him even as his mind is very engaged and John knows it is unlikely that he will fall asleep again.  

He is grateful, every day, again, that Fiona is doing well.  In order for John to have resumed the much-needed working hours, they have enlisted the nanny services of Mrs. Hudson's distant niece Kimberly.  She is a nursing student, who is able to work her online schooling around John's short shift requirements at the surgery, and John knows which days to avoid when she has traditional classes.  Sherlock can cover some of the hours, and he does, but John has been fairly insistent that childcare will be good for them all.  Plus, Kimberly is able to come to their flat, which reduces Fiona's overall exposure to any outside germs and illnesses.  Or Sherlock's troublesome penchant for non-infant proof experimentation with whatever his mind is working on.

So far, it has been working fairly well, although John wonders what Kimberly would charge to spend the night in order to let them somehow, miraculously, get _one full night_ of sleep.  He can barely remember what that was like, to sleep all night.  Having a premature baby there was nothing short of ridiculously tiresome.  For the first weeks, it seemed that she was up every few hours hungry, and then when she would finally fall asleep, she would have another bout of apnea, and the monitor would jar them all into another vigilant wakeful state.  That had resolved somewhat, anyway, and John is grateful for that, as well.

Pushing the bedcovers aside, he swings his feet over the side, sits a moment while he gathers his bearings and waits for his equilibrium to right itself.  He looks forward to the days when sleep deprivation and exhaustion are not such continual parts of his life.  Finally steady, he slides into slippers, heads upstairs.  The glider rocker stops making noise as John's foot presses down on the third step from the top that creaks.

The vision that greets him is one that, even after several weeks at home, strikes a ridiculously tender feeling in John's chest.  Sherlock is seated in the rocking chair, his dressing gown wrapped loosely around him, tee shirt rumpled, and sleep pants over long-toed bare feet.  Fiona is in his arms, of course, and he has suspended the apnea alarms for the moment.  A bottle is in his hands, a cloth under Fiona's chin, and he is staring at Fiona, head bent low over the baby in his arms.  "... and I'll tell you something else, apparently I forgot to turn off the monitor in the bedroom, and unfortunately the short, burly, _hungry_ monster is awake now.  But I will defend you, slay the monster, and we will live safely and happily ever after, all right?"  There is the smallest crinkling of smile lines at his eyes.  "The blood spatters on the ceiling will be remarkable, as will the pooling on the carpet, and we will study all of it for _hours_."

"Just stop," John says, chuckling.  Yesterday's story had also been something equally grisly and macabre, spoken in a completely normal story-telling voice, and John has enough to worry about without being concerned that Fiona will have deep-seated childhood fears as a result of her earliest Baker Street experiences with Sherlock's eccentricities and vividly disturbing stories.  Part of him, however, is becoming somewhat resigned that Fiona will adapt to it, embrace a love of criminology, and probably gang up on him along with Sherlock.  John is pretty sure he is going to be both outnumbered and doomed, regardless, losing the battle from early on.

"You can go back to bed, John."  His toe digs into the floor to start the rocking again.  "We're almost done here."

"I'm awake," he mutters, and he pads to the bed and leans shoulder first onto it, glad that it remains in the room.  "She looks comfy there."  John's voice is rough and gravelly with this middle of the night business of premature baby care.

"When I'm done holding her, I'll hold you next."  John watches as Sherlock adjusts the bottle, letting his long index finger brush against Fiona's cheek, trying to keep her awake, stimulate her sucking reflex.  "Be patient and wait your turn."

"Right."  John stretches out on the bed, the one that used to be his, which they use mostly to throw Fiona's things on, or fold laundry, or, like now, for John to collapse onto.  A few pillows support him, as he takes in the sight of Sherlock being so endearingly domestic.  He knows he will never grow tired of watching, appreciating.

"Her eating requirements are more ridiculous than yours, John.  This every two or three hour feeding demand of hers should not be catered to."

"And here you are," John says, a grin spreading as he remembers the words from that first case, the cabbie-turned-deadly, "dangerous today as you were then.  You do realise..."  John is ready to explain, again, why Fiona's feeding schedule is what it is, why she eats so often as she grows.

Sherlock interrupts.  "Yes, of course I do."  They have both been to multiple paediatrician appointments, too many, Sherlock fusses seeing as how John is a _bloody physician_ and can _bloody well handle_ all this.  It all falls on deaf ears, and yet he whinges about it anyway.  But now Fiona has fallen asleep, and he sets the bottle aside, drapes a flannel over his hand, and positions her sitting upright, her chin securely between the vee of his thumb and index finger.  His hands are graceful, John thinks, and what might have been an awkward thing once is now smooth and efficient and naturally competent.  There is a small bubble, and he tries a bit longer to re-awaken her to finish more of the feeding to no avail.  Even a nappy check doesn't seem to do it, so he swaddles her gently and puts her back in the cot.  He attaches and unsuspends the apnea monitor, makes a final adjustment to the bumble bee patterned blanket.  John absolutely will never _ever_ comment on the fact that this blanket is clearly Sherlock's favourite, as he uses it _all the time_.  The bluster that he had spouted forth when Mycroft had brought it, John has ignored, and finds his affinity for the bumble bee blanket sweet, no matter what he said nor his sour expression.

"Come," he says, holding out an arm to John.  "You're exhausted."

"I'm exhausted."  John echoes the words, agreeing with Sherlock.  They manoeuver downstairs with care, and then, climbing into bed, Sherlock gathers John into his arms as promised, with Sherlock holding him in a strong and secure embrace.  The men sleep lightly, and for a few hours anyway, the monitor is blissfully silent.

++

The apnea alarm had been quiet a few nights in a row now, and John looks forward to the day when they will eventually abandon it.  He knows Fiona will outgrow her earlier physical challenges, and hopes that it will be soon.  So, after a few monitor-silent nights, when the piercing alarm startles them both from slumber seemingly right after they'd fallen asleep, it is frightening again.  John springs up quickly, goes to her room hoping that all will be all right, as most of the other alarms have been quickly and spontaneously resolved.  Most of her episodes were self-correcting, moreso now than in the beginning, of course.  He finds her asleep although moving around, breathing well with normal color and tone, but he finds that she has tangled her hand somehow in one of the leads despite John's careful swaddle job and attention to the wire position.

"She did this on purpose."  Sherlock whispers in a stage voice, having followed him in to offer his own commentary.

"I don't think so."

"Your daughter, John," Sherlock begins.  "Of course she's expressing herself."  Sherlock comes up behind him, pressing close, his hands long and warm on John's muscled biceps.  "Fussing, like you do."

"Wanker," John whispers back, then adds, "She may have learned this rebellious behaviour from you."

"I would have taught her far more creative ways to be rid of it than by simply disconnecting it."  The corners of his eyes crinkle, and John knows an insult is likely coming.  "She might be very limited by her genetic material."

"Guess you have a lot to compensate for, then."

"My work here is never done," he sighs wearily, as if both John and his daughter are a lost cause.  However, he cannot hide the twinkle in his eye there beside Fiona's cot, even in the dim light.

John fixes an eye on him, and tugs lightly on Sherlock's sleeve as they both leave Fiona's bedroom.  "I would much prefer we teach her to obey than to search for work-arounds."

The face Sherlock makes is both amused and incredulous.  He actually blows out a breath, comes toward John and begins to herd him toward the door.  As he does so, he slides his hands into John's pyjama pants and then behind his bum, touching and teasing lightly, then just barely pinching as he know John likes.  Sherlock kisses the back of his neck muttering, "Obedience.  What's the point of that."

++

Fiona still awakens at night at four months.

Returning to work, John knows, is something he both wants and needs, but a few weeks into his abridged schedule he wonders if it is worth the hassle.  Making it happen had required quite a bit of planning beyond the former days of grab keys and coat and go.  Finding the nanny was a big hurdle, and fortunately for them Kimberly has not chosen to run away screaming for what Sherlock put her through at the "interview," and those times he was simultaneously underfoot, micromanaging, and meddlesome.  John is particularly concerned, with good reason just based on the nature of his work, about bringing home germs, communicable diseases, bacteria, or viruses from the surgery, as Fiona's immune system would still be somewhat compromised for her first few months, perhaps beyond that.  He tries changing at work, or stripping his clothing off in the entryway (until he was discovered by Mrs. Hudson and they were both mildly traumatised from that eye-opening mildly revealing encounter), or proceeding immediately to the shower and depositing his clothes in the laundry in the process.  

Recessed in the windowless clutter of the office he shares, John checks the time his mobile, sighing again, picks up the next chart of one of his patient encounters from earlier.  There is a lab slip to file, results to notify the patient about, and a tagging for a recall in six months for the next visit.  His eyes blur just a bit, and he finishes the chart, reaches for the next.  To his surprise, he finds that, finally, it is the last chart, requires only a signature, and the pile is empty.  The fatigue of the day has suddenly been replaced by a burst of energy that will get him home, enough for the brisk walk that will carry him to Sherlock and Fiona and Baker Street.  Work is a mixed blessing, and while he appreciates talking with adults and making a difference in their health, he is grateful for the evenings at home now that Fiona is a bit more interactive and a stronger, more resilient baby.  Her smiles were slow to come, but now she regularly smiles at either or both of them, has started to make other faces and sounds.  The smiling, though, is the heart-stopper, the prize, and of course memorialised on his phone's lock screen.  Her first one, he has groused about since it first happened, was traitorously directed at Sherlock, who is gratefully indebted to John's good naturedness as he is prone to mention it frequently.  To anyone who will listen.  And in the comment section of John's blog.  And to Fiona especially when John is paying them any attention.

Gone are the days of the multiple feedings overnight, although John will be glad when they are gone altogether.  The low birthweight is now less of an issue, her maturity approaching normal growth curves, and her weight gain appropriate.  She has finally started to outgrow the typical preemie fussiness and hypersensitivity - too much noise and she fussed, too quiet was even worse, particularly in the early days when she likely missed the background noise she'd grown accustomed to in the NICU and then high-dependency nursery.  They could finally take her out, although her paediatrician still recommended avoiding crowds for a few months yet.  The one cold she had contracted had left both of them approaching germophobia and highly motivated to do whatever they could to reduce her exposure to bacteria, viruses, or other microbes, and as Sherlock would add, also _stupidity_.  John had stopped arguing that stupidity was not contagious.  Some days, like this one in the clinic, he could probably have been persuaded it was.

He closes up his office, putting on his jacket as he says goodbye to the receptionist.  From his pocket, he pulls out his mobile to let Sherlock know he is just leaving and will be home soon.  There is a moment of confusion as the person he is ready to text is standing in the entryway.  Sherlock stands tall as ever, Belstaff hanging in long lines that flatter, like always, and strapped inside of it is Fiona in the front-pack baby carrier.  Her small baby extremities stick out from leg and arm holes, and one of Sherlock's gloved hands lies protectively splayed over her back.  She is wearing a fleecy pink baby suit with a hood, and there are little ears sewn into the fuzzy hood, and John thinks it is an adorable pairing - tall man, professionally dressed, holding a small infant with such care.  John is thrilled to see them and mildly concerned that there is an issue that brings them both to his location, waiting for him.

"Everything all right?"  John has already shouldered his pack, and leans closer to peek at the very awake baby.  "Your first time with the carrier, right?"

"Yes, and yes."  

"Let me wash my hands again," as he crosses the room to make use of the sink.  He knows Sherlock won't touch anything there, and, drying his hands, says, "I swear this office sees every infection in central London."  John feels clean enough to reach his hand out toward Fiona, straightens her hood as they exit the building.

The walk home is leisurely, and they catch up on the days events, discuss dinner, and speculate on the pending crime wave Sherlock is too-eagerly anticipating.  John finally asks, "So, why did you come?"

"She was acting a bit stir crazy.  She needed to get out of that flat."

The tone makes John grin.  "She did, or you did, hmm?"

"Both.  I figured the carrier would keep most people from touching her, although there was this one ..."  John laughs, and Sherlock adds, "Mostly people kept a decent distance.  And their hands to themselves."

"Your glaring may have had something to do with that."  John touches Sherlock's back, feels the criss-crossed straps under the long coat, the places where the pack can be adjusted.  "How long did it take you to get it on and get Fiona into it?"

A flush crosses his cheeks.  "Not answering that."

"It looks good," John decides not to draw more attention to the fact that he'd offered to show Sherlock how it fit the last time he himself'd worn it.  "You wear her well."

"Truth is, I was hoping perhaps some fresh air exposure during the day would lengthen the time she sleeps at night."  His eyes are sparkling and John can feel his chest expand at the thought of uninterrupted time for _sleeping_  let alone the possibility of anything else.  With a partial smile that gives away exactly what Sherlock has in mind, a slight lick of his tongue across the bow of his upper lip, he is rather clear that he has something in mind.

"I take it that means you and I have _plans_ tonight?"

The answering smile is enough of an answer, but he says, "Yes, perhaps you could try to stay awake long enough this time."

++

A week later, Fiona seems to be cutting a tooth, early, and the nights are again, _long_.  And broken into insufficient blocks to _actually sleep_ , for John anyway.

**Mrs Hudson says she can watch Fiona while we grab supper out tonight.**

**Seems rather a lot of energy with you so tired all the time. SH**

**I need a night out, with you.**

**Dinner, date, walking.  Sounds boring. SH**

**Wanker.**

**All right, if you insist.  SH**

**:-)**

**Wait, did you just agree to supper or wanking?**

**_John._ SH**

**A valid question.**

**If you are insisting on dinner out, I agree. SH**

**I do.  Wear that aubergine shirt.**

**Oh, and I suppose trousers too ;-)**

**I'm leaving the surgery now.**

**Sherlock?**

**Case.  Wrapping up last details.  Sorry, hurrying, fast as possible with these Met imbeciles. At this moronic rate, I'll be home next month.  SH**

**I just got home, Kimberly just left, I took Fiona to Mrs. Hudson's, should I just meet you at Angelo's?**

**No,**   **running just a tad late, home soon, I swear it.  SH**

Breathless on the kerb, Sherlock enters 221, finds Mrs. Hudson's door open, Fiona is in a booster seat staring at the few toys in front of her.  Mrs. Hudson shushes him before he speaks, flaps her hands sideways at him to keep moving before Fiona sees him, gestures that she is almost asleep for her later afternoon nap, so he does.  The steps creak as always, and he enters the flat, late, blustery, ready to blurt out a huge apology to John for ruining his obviously much needed and planned evening out.  They hadn't had much time nor energy to do that sort of thing lately, so Sherlock was looking forward to it as well despite the protestations he'd given earlier.  Doubly so once he'd managed to leave the Met behind to wallow in their own inefficiency.

Fully dressed, his jacket under his head, John is sound asleep on the couch.  He is beautiful in slumber, Sherlock notes, his forehead relaxed, long, light eyelashes tranquil and nearly brushing against his cheek, his hair falling in gentle silvery blond waves, lifting off his brow, boyish.  His breathing pattern is gentle, easy, and he is obviously in a deeper stage of sleep than what a quick nap may have put him in.  He debates inwardly for only a few moments, then dims one of the lights, toes off his own shoes.  John's shoes are removed next, and Sherlock takes a knee before the couch, slides a hand along John's jaw, realises that he'd even shaved after work, in anticipation of tonight.  He knows John so well, knows the vigilance he takes so seriously with Fiona, and deduces that once he'd taken his daughter to Mrs. Hudson, in all likelihood, he was finally able to fall asleep deeply and with atypical abandon, knowing she was cared for and close by.

"John," he whispers, letting his fingers brush over John's ear and into his hair.  His skin is warm under the touch, and Sherlock can feel John's usual radiating body heat coming up from his collar, the scent of his aftershave and soap and entirely-too-much tea.

There is a tired growl somewhere within John's chest, and his head turns into Sherlock's touch, his head nudging like a cat wanting attention and petting.  He obliges, letting his other hand brush lightly against John's arm.

"John," he says again.  "Do you still want to go out, or should we just go to bed?"

"God," there is the slightest weak voice in the breathy answer, "you're late."  There is a deep sigh, a lifting of shoulder and chest with normal respiration, and then John is a bit deeper again, his body still.

Sherlock stands, deciding that a few extra hours of sleep will be more restorative and beneficial than any meal would have been, wonders at the best means to get both of them down the hall to the bedroom.  He hears footsteps, and Mrs. Hudson is on the steps with a napping Fiona, too.  He tries not to wither her with his glare at the interruption, the disruption, but she smiles fondly as she sees John's current condition.  She holds out a soiled blanket, and he understands she is only there to replace it.  She stands beside Sherlock a moment, as he reaches out his finger to lightly brush at Fiona's wispy hair as she sleeps in Mrs. Hudson's arms.  There is a spare blanket with zoo creatures set on the couch end, which he hands over, and in a few silent moments, the Sleeping Watson count is back down to one, and he is alone with John again.

"Bed, John."  He keeps his voice mild as he lets his hand brush lightly over John's elbow then down along his hip, hoping to wake him only enough to relocate.

John issues a mild grumble of protest.  His eyes open, then, and in an attempt to rouse himself, he pushes up on an elbow, his eyes blinking away the presumed dryness.  " 'm ready, dinner?"

"No," he soothes, seeing the exhaustion and the mild confusion on John's face as he grasps how bone-weary he is, and understands that Sherlock has again assumed the role of care-taker.  "You need sleep much more than you need food."

"Nap, then dinner," he says with mildly slurred words.  Chuckling to himself, Sherlock half-pulls half-drags him to his feet, and John offers only minimal assistance (and one, weak protest about eating) as Sherlock guides him down the hall, where John would have tumbled into the inviting beckoning mattress had Sherlock not momentarily halted him.  It was a temporary delay, only long enough for Sherlock to strip John to pants and vest.

Over the years of their friendship and the weeks of intimacy, Sherlock knows without a doubt that several things do actually help John both fall asleep and stay that way:  an orgasm, and his company.  He sees to both, the first with single minded focus.  His slicked hand seeking, stroking, finding, and he wraps his long fingers around both of them, as John likes, firmly, together.  A well-timed pinch of John's right nipple and a strong grasp behind the top of his posterior thigh helps bring things quickly to the point of rock hard throbbing.  There is a shuddering gasp and the tension that had built in John, his whole body tight and coiled and trembling, peaks and then ebbs.  Sherlock is close behind, then it all eases as Sherlock reaches for tissues to wipe away their combined body fluids.

"Wake me in an hour, we'll grab dinner."  John's eyes are already closed and his voice is monotone and rough.

John's breathing settles, deepens.  Sleepily, John turns on his side and shuffles his hips back in search of Sherlock's warm chest and belly, to snuggle against him with Sherlock's legs tucked up under his own.  As expected and hoped for, an arm slides around John's middle, long fingers finding warm skin in the gap between waistband and shirt.  Sherlock presses in, his mouth finding John's shoulder, breathes an exaggerated few times, and smiles to himself as John hums a little as he relaxes. 

When John is sliding into REM sleep, Sherlock carefully scoots back enough to make escape from the bed possible, and when the moment is right, he slides from the bed.  On stealthy bare feet, he takes the baby monitor as well as John's mobile, adjusts the drapes for optimal darkness, and leaves the room.

John is still asleep when Sherlock pushes open the door much, _much_ later, his arms full of a bundle of wriggling, hungry young Watson.  John is still on his side, but he shows signs of lightening, turning over more frequently, and Sherlock can tell he would probably have awakened shortly on his own.

His voice is quiet as he speaks, "I brought you something."

An eye opens, takes in the sight, and as understanding dawns, confusion sets in almost immediately.  "What time is it?"

"Eight."

"In the _morning_?"

Smirk, smile, wink.  Sherlock waits for John's brain to engage.  "You have two hours before you need to leave for work.  Plenty of time."

Pushing up on an elbow, John is both startled and mildly aggravated.  "You never...  We were ...   _God_ , Sherlock, _what did you do_?"  He pushes up against the headboard, pokes at a pillow, rubs a hand over his face.

There is a bit of an impish grin on Sherlock's face as he sets Fiona down in John's arms, hands him a flannel and a warmed bottle.  "Here."  He spins on a heel, leaves John and Fiona to stare at each other.  Now that she is not being carried somewhere, her face begins to get flushed and the hungry cry resumes.  Obligingly, John slides the bottle into her mouth, loosens the blanket she is wrapped in.  As she stares at him, sucking greedily, John glances around briefly, takes stock of the room.  His mobile is absent, and the monitor as well, clearly intentional.  The other side of the bed had been slept in, but not recently, as it is cool.  The light peeks in from behind the curtains, and John shakes his head as he watches Fiona, her fingers reaching for random things - him, the blanket, smacking at the bottle.  Moments later, Sherlock returns, tea in hand for each of them, and he places John's where he can reach it, then crawls onto the space on the other side of the bed, on top of the duvet to recline against the headboard next to John and Fiona.

"I can't believe you," John says.  "You were supposed to wake me, we had Mrs. Hudson lined up and everything."  Fiona's eyes are mostly settled on John, but she glances at Sherlock as they are all there, and she is so curious much of the time, that Sherlock often tries to take credit for her nosiness.  

Sherlock's brows come together.  "Are you angry," he says in a lower voice, inquisitive, his head tilting, "because I let you sleep?"  He sips his tea, crosses his legs at the ankle.  "Something you desperately needed, I may add."

"No," he said immediately, then shrugged, "maybe a little.  This was not my plan."  He softens, breath exhaling as he does actually appreciate the restorative sleep.  "Dinner was my plan, well dinner and sex, but as I recall, we sort of got that part in."

"You haven't had this many hours of uninterrupted sleep in _months_."

A small sad smile precedes his statement, "Since well before she was born, certainly."  John looks down again to see Fiona still watching him, chucks her under the chin a bit.  "Thank you should have been the first thing I said, however.  So thank you."

"She only got up twice after I retrieved her from Mrs. Hudson.  Not a terrible night."

"Taking the monitor was sneaky."  John carefully sips his tea, cautious of the hot liquid he holds over his daughter.  "And my mobile."

"It was the only way."

Fiona is less frantic than she'd been, and has slowed down a bit on emptying the bottle, John sees.  And then John sees something else.  "You gave her a bath already?"

"Out of necessity.  She was rather ..." his nose wrinkled in disgust, "in need of it."

"I suppose you would rather I keep your domestic skills out of the blog post I'm hoping to upload later?"

"God, yes.  And away from Mycroft.  Preferably the Met as well."  A long fingered hand reaches out to puff out Fiona's hair so it can dry.  "I do have an international reputation to maintain."

"Your secret is safe," John meets his gaze, and the smiles are broad.  He has been amazed at how Sherlock has taken to the mundane and tedious parenting tasks, helping out and seeming to enjoy it even.  He has, however, often verbalised that he would like to keep his freakish, aloof reputation intact by John protecting that information.  "But I do have incriminating video of you trying to put that fluffy headband on her the other day."

"You did, you mean."  John turned inquisitive eyes toward him. "I've had your phone all night.  There's been plenty of time to delete anything that might be perceived as threatening."

John can only smile and nod.  He chooses not to tell Sherlock that he had emailed the video file to his sister Harry for safekeeping. 

++

Fiona at eight months is much different than she had started out, and the only reminders of her earlier health concerns live in John's memory and the photos in one of his digital albums.  The biggest blessing - and John acknowledges that there are many, _many_ blessings - is that she has finally managed to sleep through the night.   _Finally_.

John opens one eye as awareness settles in, rolls onto his back to work out the kinks, and gingerly slides a toe to rest under Sherlock's calf.  They are both warm, sleepy, sated.  The dim light of an early London morning crawls sleepily from behind the drape.  Movement of the form next to him, and a moment later he is half covered with dark curls, a shirtless torso draped across him, and a naked knee between his own pyjama clothed legs.  Sherlock had long since stopped arguing about naked vs non-naked sleeping once he'd seen the advantages to letting John have his way - when they were rarely summoned by the little princess upstairs, John could get to her and calm her much faster if he was already wearing something.  Not that Sherlock typically went back to sleep after John arose, but it was nice to have the option if he so desired.

John draws his arm around and underneath Sherlock's shoulders, and they make minute adjustments until there is familiarity and comfort, two bodies who are accustomed to the perfect fit of togetherness.  Turning his head just enough, he presses lips to the side of Sherlock's temple, feels the exhale against him, the security of belonging, the rightness.

The small blue light on the baby monitor is on, steady, reassuring that all is quiet upstairs for the present moment.  Fiona has lived at Baker Street her whole life, except for the first six weeks spent in the neonatal unit and then the high dependency nursery.  The baby monitor is all that remains now, after the apnea monitor had finally stopped alarming, its services no longer needed.  As hard as it had been to have the presence and reassurance of the monitors to be concerned with there on Baker Street, it had been even harder for John, initially, when they _weren't_ on.  Many a time Sherlock had firmly held John in bed to prevent him checking on her in thirty-minute intervals those first few transitional, non-technology monitored nights.  "She's fine," he'd said, soothing.  "See?"  They'd been using a video monitor exclusively by then, and John had clung to it, staring, some of the first nights, he had even fallen asleep holding it in those early days after the biometric monitoring had been collected by one of the health visitors.

For the moment, now, with Sherlock dozing lightly against him, the monitor quiet, and his arms full, he can feel the tension leave as the harder memories dim again.  She was growing well, achieving normal milestones and developmentally on track.  Her toothy grin is beyond adorable, and even Sherlock agrees with that.  She has John's eyes and chin, and also his stubbornness, on that they both agree.  The grayish light is just beginning to get brighter and illuminates the shape of their intertwined legs under the duvet, catching lightly on the pale hairs on his arm.  The indentation from his former wedding band is long gone, his hand smooth as it conforms to the shape of Sherlock's bicep.  He wants to caress, to rub, to slide his thumb into the more sensitive underside of Sherlock's arm but resists.

"You can if you want," Sherlock murmurs.  "You're quite awake."

Of course, Sherlock can tell simply by the rate of John's pounding heart under his ear what John is thinking.  Just the thought of that has other parts of John awakening, throbbing, too.  Just another way to say good morning, John considers.

"We can do that, too," he says, and John can feel the smile against his chest.

"I'm an open book to you, sometimes," he says, shifting one leg slightly against Sherlock's hip.

"Really, John.  Swollen body parts make certain things blatantly obvious."  Sherlock adjusts his knee to find out exactly where the rest of John may be this morning then slides a hand down and inside the elastic waistband.  His hand finds what it was searching for, encircles him with long somewhat sleepy fingers, squeezes not-too-tightly until he hears John's breathing change depth.  "Oh, my, anxious this morning?"

There is a sweet, raspy morning chuckle, and John pushes at Sherlock until he is sprawled mostly overtop of him.  "It's been _hours_.  Of course I am."

"Eight.  God, we're slipping," Sherlock agrees.  His own hardness lines up against John and there is a bit of rubbing, pleasant friction that will build.  It is easy, comfortable, relaxed, speaking of two whose lives have meshed in previously unthinkable and unimaginable ways.  But now, John cannot picture his life any other way, smiles as he lets his hands explore until he hears Sherlock's slight gasp, feels the tremble in his pelvis.

John angles his hips harder, digging into the mattress with his heels, pushing up firmly into Sherlock's hand and body.  Easy and indulgent becomes more intense, harder, and passionate.  For such familiarity they have with each other's bodies, it is still an intense and intimate moment.  Neither of them take their relationship lightly or for granted, having learned through experience that nothing is guaranteed and things can change on a dime.  John bites just barely over Sherlock's chest, nipping the way he likes, and is rewarded with a deeper moan.  The shuddering gasps become a bit more vocal, more quietly fierce, and release is imminent.  John holds tight with firm hands, again, just the way Sherlock likes, until they are both spent.  And just as he thinks they may have a bit of a lie-in for just a little longer, there is noise through the monitor.  

A flannel hits him under the chin as Sherlock gets out of bed this time to take care of things, see to Fiona, give John those few minutes he particularly adores on those mornings when they have nothing on.  He cleans off, tosses the flannel aside, curls up on his side, breathing deeply of their scents - Sherlock, belonging, security, warm bed, satisfaction, _home_.  His eyes close, and there is still a smile on his face as he takes a deep breath before getting up, ready for the day.

++

The text from Lestrade comes a little later that morning.  Fiona is in her chair at the kitchen table, watching Sherlock absently drink coffee while peering intently into the microscope, evaluating slides of various ...  John doesn't even ask what it is today.  The text, however, is something Sherlock must find interesting.

"You've nothing on today, right?"  Of course, Sherlock knows this, but John can already tell, from the bright eyed smile on Sherlock's face, that his day off just got filled with an unexpected surprise.

"Right.  Case?"

"Yes.  Missing person, very bizarre."  They both look at the baby, who looks back, blows bubbles, lets out a huge yell that even startles herself.  She then throws a piece of cereal onto the floor, then more follow.  She is holding and waving a teething spoon, flamboyantly conducting a complicated and intricate symphony orchestra, Sherlock has observed more than once.  She catches sight of the spoon and then bites at it.  The clicking sound of utensil and teeth is then punctuated by the launching of said utensil and the landing on the floor with a clatter.  "A dog, John," Sherlock says, pointing to the scraps of food on the floor.  Fiona chortles her agreement, and Sherlock gestures to her while looking at John as if to say, 'see?'

"No."  The puppy has just been born, but Sherlock doesn't know that yet, a hound of black and brown with beautiful parents.  It will be another few weeks and then an early birthday present for Sherlock although John will put a blue bow on him and let them all think it is for Fiona.  "Kimberly has clinical today."  Their usual nanny was now in the thick of her nursing classes.  "Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock smiles, an excited grin that reaches his eyes.  He thrives on cases of any type, but particularly preens when John is able to accompany him.  "Almost certainly available, she's been asking."

++

A tube ride and then a brief cab fare drops them off at a single residence where other cars are already gathered.  John checks his mobile again, on, good battery, and on ring plus vibrate, and follows the flare of the billowing Belstaff into the home.

The details are indeed bizarre - anonymous gifts on the front porch, phone calls with no caller on the line and no caller ID, a sense of being watched by both Penny, the missing woman, and her husband Rob.  They are rather newly wedded, and the home is decorated with eclectic pieces of art.  He'd gone to bed without her, he explained, fallen asleep, and awakened to a completely quiet house and all his wife's personal effects including her car and her mobile still at home.

"She would never, ever - she even tells me when she's going to be five minutes late from the gallery."  Penny Smythe was employed as a curator, instructor, and manager at a local artists theatre and gallery.

John watches Sherlock, whose suspicious expression indicates that he believes the man is lying, as he starts opening cabinets, doors, and shifting through stacks of mail.  The man, Rob, seems a bit put out at the silence, lack of questions, or failing to get permission before searching.  John turns on what he hopes is a kindly apologetic look and says, "Going to take a quick look around, get a feel for something that may help us find your wife."  John shrugs, and adds, "Tag along if you'd like."

At that, Rob bristles less and casts an uncertain distrustful look at Sherlock, who is checking jacket pockets and smelling the collar of Penny's coat.  He chooses to follow John anyway, blowing out a shaky breath.  John walks down the hall past an officer evaluating a window sill, while Lestrade is on his mobile attempting to obtain call records.  John pokes his head briefly into the bedroom, then ducks into their loo.  Rob has wandered after him, probably to keep a bit of distance between himself and Sherlock.  John opens the medicine cabinet, his eyes drawn to the row of pharmacy bottles.   _Furosemide, potassium chloride, digoxin._ The dates, he sees, are all about six months old.  Another medication,  _neoral_ _,_ in a larger container, is in the front of the cabinet and dated last week.

Rob is at the doorway, and John taps on the bottle, looks over at him, the question already on his lips.  Rob nods, and says, "Yes, it's hers.  She had a heart transplant.  She would never, ever, _ever_ leave without her medication."

Sherlock has followed, intuiting that John has unearthed something, and has overheard everything he needed to.  He says, "Check the chemists, see if another refill has been given."  

A new flurry of activity begins, and Sherlock takes a quick look at John, sees more than anyone else would ever see.  He knows John, knows that he will not rest until he has more information, and more importantly, will be _useless_ to Sherlock if he needs him.  Turning to Rob, Sherlock asks a few non-health-related questions, and then asks, "When and where was her transplant, exactly?"

"Right here in London.  Viral cardiomyopathy as a teen, she had."  Rob shrugs, and his mobile buzzes in his pocket.  He raises the handset to check it before declining the call, says, "Almost eight months ago."

Abruptly, Sherlock rivets his stare to John, one eye narrowing at him and the other brow raising, a warning, a threat, to stay focused.  John nods, understanding the caution and that it almost certainly is coincidental.  

"Lestrade?" Sherlock calls out, and strides into the depths of the rest of the house.  John closes the cabinet, and follows Sherlock and the rest back out to the great room.  He considers her coat again, then picks up her purse, removes the pocket-sized calendar he has discovered and a business card falls out.  A few random details come together in Sherlock's great mind, and he stands tall.  "She's being blackmailed.  Obviously.  Perhaps an artist she refused or who is unhappy with the gallery.  Does the gallery have a storage area, a secondary location?" he asks Lestrade.

The case takes on new life, and many things are being discovered at once.  Information is pouring in now, and officers have been sent to both gallery locations, where Penny is finally found locked inside a smaller room.  She'd been forced to execute a contract for a two-week showing, by an _artiste_ with less talent than the gallery typically showcased.  Relief is apparent on Lestrade's face as he clutches his mobile, when the latest update is that Penny is unharmed, and being brought home.  The artist has been taken to the hospital in handcuffs, having sustained a bit of injury in the capture, and is expected to be treated without further incident, he relates.  John watches Rob sag with relief when he hears Penny is on her way, and can sympathise with him a bit, having had the random encounter with kidnapping, abduction, and being held against his wishes, over the years.  He could vividly recall, as well, what it felt like when he was not assured of Sherlock's safety and the almost unbearable feeling of being finally assured that Sherlock was safe, all right, and unharmed.

It isn't long before a panda car turns onto the road where they wait on the porch for her arrival.  The car stops, parks, and the doors are opened.  Penny is all smiles, seeking immediately the location her husband, and clearly anxious for Rob's embrace.

Rob is relieved to the point of actual tears when they are reunited.  There is some whispering going on as they embrace, and although Lestrade is eager to get information and take statements, they are all moved when Rob's shaky words "I almost lost you once, and today I almost lost you again" are heard quietly in the room.  Lestrade gets a bit more patient at that point.

Most of the information has been gathered, and Lestrade takes a few notes, until Penny excuses herself for a moment and disappears into the loo murmuring something about her medication and freshening up.  Lestrade is chatting with one of the other officers over the radio, so it is just the three of them left in the room.  John sits quietly as he watches Sherlock tap Rob on the shoulder, pulls him very close so he can hear Sherlock's very discreet words.  

He says to Rob, voice low, "You need to break off that other relationship immediately."

Rob is stunned.  "How...?"  He looks agitated as he glances around, whispering feverishly.  "We never, I never...   _We haven't_."

"Please," Sherlock says dismissively.  "You give it all away, the house, the declined mobile call, your behaviour.  But it stops today."  

Wide-eyed, Rob nods, and Sherlock watches him then seems to exhale as if he'd deemed him being truthful.  

But he is not done speaking, and says very quietly to Rob, "She's already had one broken heart," Sherlock's eyebrow raises, and John is stunned when he continues, "so take care with what you've been given."

John waits for the look he knows Sherlock is eventually going to direct his way, and is not disappointed.  Their strength, their eye contact, communicates without words being necessary, that they are quite fortunate indeed.

++

Lestrade finishes the paperwork with Rob, and John hears Penny out in the kitchen, so he joins her.  She offers him tea, which he accepts, and she intersperses snippets of conversations with the occasional 'thank you ever so much' as she has done since being discovered and brought home.  It is heartfelt and raw, occasionally accompanied with moist eyes, but overall she seems calmer and John knows they are just wrapping up outside.

"Don't store your neoral in the bath.  It needs a dry, room temperature location," he says to her.

"I didn't think it mattered," she says back.  "I don't recall them telling me that."  Retrieving it from down the hall, just a few steps away, she holds the bottle in her hand, even as she continues to stare at the label.  "I think all I heard was that I had to take this for the rest of my life."  She relates that soberly, and John knows that to the young, taking daily medication must seem unfairly restrictive.  John shares that he's a doctor and that missing a dose this once will be ok, but he suggests that she call her physician to perhaps consider checking her therapeutic drug levels maybe in a week or so.  She nods, shrugs, and agrees that she will do as he suggested, and she sets the container down on the kitchen table.  "Good to know."

John is introspective, considers the young woman who has just managed to get a reprieve from what could have been a terrible ending.  "Good.  And I know you're aware that it's worth it."  Fiona's energetic babbling from her high chair just that morning comes to mind, and he adds, "You have a lot to live for."

She is finally looking more relaxed, and comments she's glad for her second chance at things.  "I would have died without that transplant."  She smiles, then, and they chat about mostly irrelevant things for a few minutes, then she looks over, her eyes sparkling.  "We're hoping for a baby next year.  The docs say it should be fine."

"I'm sure it will be.  I have a daughter.  She was just eight months yesterday."

She speaks the date of Fiona's birthday softly.  "I got admitted to the hospital that day, here in London.  Had an impella placed."  She pauses to see that John nods his familiarity with the ventricular-assist device that had apparently been a last ditch effort to buy Penny some time, a bridge until a suitable donor could be found.  "Got my transplant exactly a week later, right here in London."  John sees her place her hand over her well-healed sternum as if remembering her experience, her post-operative pain.  "They told me it was a car accident, and Rob had overheard that my donor was pregnant."  She was paying attention only to her tea so she misses John's sharp intake of breath, his silent gulp.  "A good omen, Rob thought, should be no problem carrying a child."  Her hand is still touching her sternal scar, and the smile is back.  "My having a baby kind of brings that full circle."

John glances at her, thinking oddly of the heart beating right there across from him, that it was not the first time he'd been in the room with it, shared a life with.  And in all likelihood, here it was, next to him again.  In someone else's chest.  "Full circle," he echoes.

Sherlock appears at John's elbow, and has obviously heard enough that he _knows_.  "I heard from Mrs. Hudson.  All is well.  She says we can grab dinner if we want, rather than go right home.  When you're through here."

John isn't sure how much of that is true, doesn't care, but is grateful for the redirection of the conversation.  "Yeah.  I'm ready."  He turns to Penny, feels the oddest connection to her, and while he understands it, he doesn't quite know what to do.  He debates on wanting to hug her, but thinks that might be too much.  Penny suddenly lunges in his direction, grabbing Sherlock's neck as well, on her swoop in to embrace John.  The decision was made for him, and he lets his arms return the hug.  He thinks he can feel the thudding against his chest, tells himself that it is most likely his own heart beat he feels.

Politely, Sherlock disengages the awkward three-way hug and inserts his body somewhat between John and Penny as they say goodbye and leave the house.  It is a boundary, protective and comforting, and John's mind wanders just briefly back to the hospital days when Sherlock was choosing his clothing and his meals and taking care of everything then.   _He is still doing it,_ he muses as he follows him out of the house.

The officers are talking about the case, the artist and what he will do.  "Perhaps he will find an outlet for his artistic skills dabbling in prison ink.  I hear there's quite a market for that," one of the officers says, and a few people laugh.  They are ready to continue on with the remainder of the day, and life goes on, unstoppable.  Car doors open and close, and Sherlock is the one to lift a hand in farewell as they all prepare to part ways.

Sherlock stands close to John's side but does not take his arm right away.  "So," is all he says.

Unable to form any semblance of coherent words, John just rolls his eyes and his breath feels laboured.

"Do you need a minute?"

John stares at him stupidly for a moment, then shakes his head.  Rob and Penny come out on the front porch to wave another goodbye.  Rob's arm is around her, and he shares a moment of eye contact with Sherlock.  Rob nods slightly, looks down at Penny, presses his lips to her hair.

"Let's just go home, all right?" he asks John, but John's expression is hooded.  He takes a few steps, then stops in his tracks, pausing just a few seconds while he catches his breath.

"Oh, my god, Sherlock."  He turns to look back at the house, thinking of the heart that is beating within those walls, the hug that had been given him.  He turned his eyes then pleadingly in Sherlock's direction, but neither of them knows exactly what John needs.  "Yes, home absolutely."

++

Fiona has been tucked into her cot, the monitor is on, and John announces that he's going to go take a bath.  Quickly washed, he settles into the water, letting the days events finally sink in.  He isn't thinking of Mary, not beyond the initial remembrance of that last day in the ICU.  He is thinking of Fiona, of Sherlock, of what he's lost and, much more and to a greater degree, all that he's gained.  There is a momentary unsettled few minutes, and then he relaxes again, letting the warm water surround him, easing the tension from his muscles.

Slowly, the door opens as John's eyes are closed, and he opens only one to see Sherlock in lounge pants entering the room holding two glasses of merlot.  "All right if I join you?"

Not waiting for an actual answer, Sherlock sets John's glass on the edge of the tub, sits down on the closed toilet.  "Wine's a nice touch.  Heart healthy red, I see."

"Seemed appropriate."

"It doesn't mix well with antirejection meds, or I would think maybe of sending one to Penny."

"Dark chocolate, instead, then, for her?" Sherlock asks, not expecting, nor receiving, an answer.

"A rather surprising coincidence?"

"Couldn't be coincidence.  As you know," Sherlock says quietly, "the universe is rarely so lazy."  He leans back, ankles crossed, while John takes a sip and also leans back.  

The room is warm, slightly steamy, and John finds the combination of warm water, wine, and probably no small amount of vasodilation make him just a bit sleepy.  "You bring the monitor in?"

"No, she was quite knackered, completely zonked when I came in.  We'll hear her if she needs anything."

"Bed is sounding like a better option."  John opens an eye again.  "Unless you'd like to lose those," he says looking at Sherlock's pyjamas, "and get in with me."

"Not the kind of 'getting in' I had in mind."

John reaches out a toe, trips the bath drain, and the bath is over.  But the evening is not.  Before long, coming from the bedroom across the hall, there are breathy moans, the quiet sound of mouths working, strong muscles holding tightly, and finally a quiet gasp of _ohmygod, Sherlock!_ and an answering, in the other voice, _yes, more, like that, close, ngh!_

The steady blue light on the monitor faintly illuminates the two forms in the bed, a head tucked over a shoulder, the tangle of fingers into dark curls, and one foot peeking out from under the duvet.

++

He hasn't written an actual longhand letter in years, but the idea came shortly after the encounter with Penny, and hasn't left.  Instead it has grown roots and wings over the past few weeks and longer, so he decides to press onward.  For ease of editing, not to mention spell check, he has drafted a short note on the computer, then copies it by hand.  A stamped envelope, addressed to NHS Blood and Transplant coordinator, is finished, and he carries it out to the postal box down the street and tosses it in before he can change his mind.

++

_I'm from Scotland, but have lived here in London many years now, am employed doing some locum work at a medical clinic.  My late wife was pregnant when the car accident happened, thankfully the baby survived.  Our daughter is now almost a year old.  I share a flat with a friend, and life is very good, although very different, than what I had expected._

_Being able to honour my late wife's wishes and support organ donation has ultimately been incredibly helpful as we move on.  Someday I will explain to my daughter about her mother's generosity, so she will know that a legacy continues in those her mum was able to help, to be matched with.  It's an odd connection, isn't it, that in a way, she touched a lot of lives including yours, and will continue to do so.  While tragedy struck me hard, it does give me hope that she made such a difference for people like you who needed this.  Best of everything.  John_

++

One letter is delivered a few weeks later, from the transplant coordinator.  With shaking hands, John opens the letter that is dated almost a year ago.

_I live here in England, and my name is Penny.  I can never say thank you enough.  Thank you.  Thank you ever so much.  There are no words that can adequately express how dark things were looking, how close I was to dying, and then, in the nick of time, came your gift that saved me.  I received a donated heart, and have a second chance at life - to work, to enjoy my family, to make beautiful memories._

_I will never forget._

_++_

A year later, John received another letter.

_It seems fitting now, that on the second anniversary of my heart transplant that I think of you and of the surgery and of your loss.  Of my gain. I am still thankful, grateful beyond measure, and I am still taking care of myself.  Your thoughtfulness, and that of your family, has not been squandered, and continues to live on well beyond what we had imagined.  I wanted to share with you that my son was born about a month ago, our first.  We named him Nathan, which means gift.  When he is older, I will explain to him about how giving, your giving, has meant so much to me.  My husband and I are grateful for every day, and appreciate the blessing that comes with it._

_I know you said you had a daughter, and I hope she is doing well._

_Anyway, thanks again.  I and my family will always remember.  Penny_

++ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if I missed anything. I have stared at this chapter for a long time. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> One short one to go.
> 
> Anti-rejection medications are serious business, and I meet patients regularly who carry them everywhere, take them religiously on schedule, and suffer stress when faced with any situation that may interfere with their routine - it's that important. Dr. Watson is correct, however, that they must be stored at room temperature.


	8. A Dedication to Remember

Epilogue 

++

At just over two, Fiona is laughing again, as she often does, great big belly laughs interspersed with an occasional shriek, and both men can't be arsed to pull the dog away from her yet.  Flynn, the hound, is licking her face as she lays on the floor.  A fully-grown, enormous paw is gently on her arm, and a long pink tongue has continued to slurp at Fiona's face that has many licks ago been cleaned of the strawberry jam.  A foot kicks up in punctuation of the laughter, hitting the floor with a resounding thwack, and a long giggle from Fiona brings broad grins to both John and Sherlock.  They glance at each other, enjoying sharing this and watching Fiona's responses.

"I should really get her into the bath.  She's got nursery school today, you know."  Flynn's tail wags as Fiona wriggles and chuckles some more.

Sherlock seems horrified at the bath suggestion.  "A dog's mouth is cleaner than..."

John holds up a hand.  "I'm fairly certain that's a myth.  Probably created by physicians, to keep parents from freaking out when the dog licks their kid on the mouth."

A long arm gestures toward the microscope that has been relegated to its own area, along with the slides and other equipment, to free up the kitchen table consistently for family meals.  "I could study it all and prove it to you.  The normal flora of human vs. canine oral cavities..." and he rambles on for a moment, citing recent strains of porphyromonas, until John holds up a hand.

Shuddering briefly and considering the dog slobber Fiona is now sporting, he scoops her up to carry her to the sink, washing her face while splashing water everywhere.  It generates a whole new set of giggles and shrieking, and when he finally sets her down she stands there with her arms wrapped around his legs, and he ruffles at her curls.  "To the tub, please," he says to her, and as she scampers off, he approaches Sherlock.  "I have something else in mind entirely."  There is another grin of a different type and John lets his eye drop appreciatively across Sherlock's features, chest, waist, _lower_.  "A much more interesting topic of study."

The gleam in John's eye and the suggestive gesture he makes shuts Sherlock up almost immediately.  "How soon does Fiona's school start?"

++

John has no idea what time it is later, when he summons the energy to turn from his side to his back, arm flopping, skin moist and just beginning to cool from the exertion and sweat of surviving another wonderful, spirited romp with Sherlock.  Even his eyes seem exhausted as he turns only blue irises to see that Sherlock is also panting, ribs heaving, head tilted back with the fingers of one hand raking the curls from his head in an effort to cool off.  His eyes are closed, but it wouldn't have mattered because of course he can feel John looking at him.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?" John thinks that even his own voice sounds strained, and he supposes, given the sounds that Sherlock had managed to coax from him minutes ago, that it was probably true.

"Checking to make sure that I am still breathing hard."  John indeed is watching Sherlock's chest, seeing the intercostals retracting, and looking closely he can see the precordial lift over his heart, and for a moment thinks he can feel the bed vibrating still.  "Yes, we are rather high energy when the opportunity arises."

John can't help but snicker at the way Sherlock breathes out the word 'arises' and receives a sidelong glare for it.  He quiets, responds, "This was nice.  We are rarely childless these days."

Digging a heel into the mattress, Sherlock lunges for the sheet that is ready to drift onto the floor and snags his mobile on the way back to his pillow, exhaling as if he is ready for a long hibernation.  "You needn't glare at me.  I'm not working, checking email, or anything else, merely setting an alarm so we don't miss Fiona's pickup time."

"God, we can't stay in bed.  It's the middle of the day," and John manages to find several more reasons why they can't laze about where they are until he realises Sherlock has yet again ignored him, set the alarm, and tucked the mobile under his pillow.  John's voice and arguments trail off as Sherlock slides an arm over his chest then pulls and tugs until he is settled under the crook of Sherlock's arm, a light brush of lip against his temple, and the pat of Sherlock's hand against him as if soothing a troubled child.  "But..." John offers weakly, one last effort.

"Shut it."  Sherlock waits for John to relax, feeling the stiff posture, the stubborn resistance. _"John."_

"I can't..." he breathes out in a whisper.

"For the ridiculous feeding schedule, the constant checking on her, all the sleepless nights, your daughter's utterly selfish demands ..."  and Sherlock pauses here as John giggles, taps his chest lightly to remind Sherlock that his own temperament and behaviour is not so different from Fiona's.  Sherlock grits his teeth, jaw clenching, and gives John the slightest shake to get his attention back to his words, "you are most certainly entitled to what will end up being a very brief nap here with me."

John decides it's easier to give in than to argue any further.  Besides, he thinks, a nap doesn't sound like a terrible idea, and he can feel the moment that they both settle in against each other, shoulders relaxing, breath easing.  John makes a few adjustments, tucking the corner of a pillow between his head and Sherlock's shoulder, gets comfortable.

"I set the alarm for 45 minutes early," Sherlock says, sliding his hand to cup John's nipple before settling at his waist.  "In case we find another burst of energy."

"Perfect," John says, eyes closed, pushing his chest in tighter and letting his knee come to rest between Sherlock's thighs.  "It'll give you time to hoover and walk the dog while I shower."

++

John had known from early on that this day would most assuredly come.

Fiona had been dropped off at school, Sherlock was out traipsing around London doing some investigating for the Met, and John was elbows deep in a patient who insisted she had symptoms of a rare tropical disease yet had no travel history or any significant exposure to known risk factors.  Part way through the visit, John knows he is ultimately going to have to give her a referral to a infectious disease specialist as well as a prescription for the unnecessary lab work she is demanding.  He swears that he is finally going to order the coffee mug that pits his doctorate against any internet search and hopes that once it arrives that he can resist the urge to bash people over their thick skulls with it.  From within the depths of his pocket, his mobile _rings_.  The incoming call tone was set from Fiona's school, intentionally chosen to alert him to higher priority calls.  Gone were the days of Sherlock texting him to demand various non-critical things, which, depending on the day, used to include milk, tea, his computer brought to him from across the room, or various anatomical portions of John's body.  He has proven, to a large degree, retrainable at least regarding inessential mobile text summons.

"Pardon me," John offers apologetically, "Back in a tic."  Discreetly, he steps out into the hallway to answer the call.

"Dr. Watson, thank god," he hears Fiona's teacher exclaim quietly when he answered, identifying himself.  "Fiona said you were dead.  Or at least severely injured.  Dragged through the house, down a flight of steps..."  She went on to describe what Fiona had shared that morning in circle time, and when the facts got sketchy, the teacher simply decided to ring him.

"No, no, I'm sorry.  I'll have a chat with Fiona.  You see, my partner was investigating the likelihood of a body being dragged ..."  John pauses right there as he hears what he is saying, and abruptly amends his comment to, "I'm quite well, thank you, just a little research.  We will have a discussion with Fiona about what went on."   _And what is appropriate for school discussions._  He pinches the bridge of his nose.  "She wasn't upset, was she?"

"No," and by now the teacher chuckles just a little, "she was actually rather excited to share the story, quite a gift for the dramatic, your daughter has.  You dabble in story-telling as well, yes, Dr. Watson?"

The word 'dabble' is almost as irritating as when Sherlock ridicules his blogging efforts.  "I do."  He wonders what the teacher would think if she spent any time in close proximity to Sherlock and/or Mycroft, if she would still blame the drama on him.

There is a sigh, and the teacher clears her throat.  "Well, I had kind of hoped this was very much a false alarm, I just felt I needed to make sure you were safe at home."  The final words of the sentence have a bit of emphasis, and ring familiar with John's vocation.

The reason for the call becomes clear, then, and John knows he has just been screened for domestic violence.  "Fine, it's all fine."

"While I have you on the phone, could I ask one more question, something else I overheard Fiona telling the class about at lunch?"  John feels the niggling of fear as he gives permission.  "There aren't _actual_ severed fingers in your refrigerator, are there?"

"No, no.  Of course not."  John feels no qualms about the denial.  It is, of course, technically true - the refrigerator contains _toes_ , not fingers.

The laughter in his ear sounds less nervous now, and the teacher thanks him for his time.  "Glad to hear you are doing well, by the way."

++

Fiona comes home from school every so often, as most children do, with an announcement concerning her future.  Many of them are typical, I'm going to be a princess or a doctor when I grow up, I want to play football, I'm going to be a teacher, and so on.  There was the month or so when she was going to be a lion tamer, and easy-going Flynn patiently spent some time in the 'circus' being unsuccessfully taught how to roar.  For a few weekends, they would visit performing dance studios so she could decide what type of ballet she wanted to learn.  One of those evenings ended in the sitting room with music playing loudly, Fiona dancing in wild abandon to her appreciative audience.  The evening included Mrs Hudson, and some hilarity of various dance steps to popular music, with Sherlock very skillfully and creatively entertaining them all with his innate sense of rhythm - a tango with Mrs. Hudson, a waltz with Fiona, a solo robot dance that had Fiona and the rest of them laughing hysterically.  Even better, Fiona's dance expo evening ended rather nicely, in John's opinion, when it was just he and Sherlock, finally alone, the two of them swaying slowly to the music of their own choosing.

But the announcement that John will remember with the biggest, _fondest_ grin is when she decides she is going to be a violinist.  The words are no sooner out of her mouth when Sherlock's head snaps around to look at her, and John sees him take a breath to slow down everything he probably wants to say instantly.

"Oh?" John asks as Sherlock's blue eyes seem to pierce through their very brains, and Fiona nods vigorously.  "Why is that?"

"Why would I not?"  She has both of their attentions now, and speaks matter-of-factly as if the question is ludicrous.  "It's beautiful.  And I _want_ to."  Her delivery is quite authoritative, and John has no problem meshing this little spitfire with the same neonate who managed to pull out various tubes in the NICU.

John stays seated while Sherlock takes charge, stands, and holds out a hand to Fiona.  "If you're _sure_ , I want to show you something."

A serious expression on her face, she nods then takes his outstretched hand, and they disappear.  John can hear rustling in their bedroom closet, and shortly Sherlock returns with Fiona just behind.  She is clutching a small violin case.

"This was mine, when I first started to play."  It is a beautiful instrument, one-quarter size, Sherlock explains, in brown polished rich wood with gleaming strings and bridge.  Clearly, it has been recently cleaned and readied, and John notices that at the same time he realises Sherlock positively avoids eye contact with him.

"Wow!" Fiona says excitedly, reaching to hold it.  John tries not to envision her dropping it, crushing it, or worse, tormenting Flynn with the bow, and the dog then spitefully deciding to eat the bloody thing.

"I have a tutor in mind for you, a very nice master who will help you learn the right way."

"You aren't going to teach me? Why not?"

"You and I will start out, just a little, and then it's best to have someone else."  Fiona looks disappointed, and Sherlock assures her, "We will practice together, and have a grand time."

While John pretends to work on his blog, he listens to Sherlock explain basic music theory, proper fingering, shows her how to tune, and Fiona lasts almost a half hour before needing a break.  "Pyjamas, Fee," John said then, kindly, "after you put that away properly."  They watched her wipe the neck and body down, loosen the bow as she'd been instructed, and they both were suppressing grins as she carried the case reverently over to set it on the shelf next to Sherlock's full sized violin.

Once they were alone, John raises an amused eyebrow at Sherlock.  "You set her up.  You knew it was coming, and you _played_ her."

The innocent look Sherlock tries to lay on John is both pitiful and ineffective.  "I have no idea as to what you are referring."

"Bullshit," he whispers, making sure his word isn't audible except to the two of them.  "You've been playing more and more in front of her, waiting until she's home from school even.  You asked about her favourite song, then you learned it.  You watched her favourite TV show and you picked out the melody of the theme song.  She was eating right out of your hand."  They can hear dresser drawers and noise from the upstairs, still, and John continues, "And apparently you had Mycroft drop that off," he gestures at the case with his head, "so that when she had no sooner mentioned it, you were ready to pounce."

John is rather animated, and Sherlock frowns just a smidge.  "Are you upset?"

"Of course not, I just don't want you thinking you got away with anything."  He smiles, then, and asks, "Why would I be upset?  I think it's great."

There is a preening that Sherlock does with his chest and his posture, and John can see a very self-satisfied smile on his face at how the evening transpired.  Sherlock's cheeks colour, then, and he adds, "You were wrong, by the way, on one thing."

Fiona is in the loo now, brushing her teeth.  "Oh yeah, what part?" John asks, sensing that Sherlock is also greatly amused.

His lips tremble as he tries not to laugh.  "I, umm," and he lets his eyes come up to meet John's unwavering gaze before looking away, "I had to go to Mycroft's to pick it up."

++

Now that Fiona is in school for the whole day - thank god, John has whispered more than once, because she needed other kids and to be away from Sherlock from time to time - John is managing the office most days, stomping out fires, answering urgent triage calls, making sure the day runs as smoothly as possible.  The receptionist comes to him between patients.  "Your 3 o'clock rescheduled.  And there's someone here to speak with you, says it's imperative."  She is flustered, just a bit.  "I put him in your office because the waiting room was full, and he was..."  Her brow furrows again, and John tries to smile reassuringly.

"It's fine."

John's office door is ajar, and he enters to find Mycroft Holmes seated opposite his desk, ankle crossed over a knee.  His mobile is in his hand, a package on his lap, and the umbrella nowhere in sight.  "Ah, Dr. Watson.  Thank you for seeing me."

"I didn't have much of a choice, did I, seeing as you're already in my office."  John hesitates as a thought crosses his mind, then.  "Did you reschedule my 3 o'clock patient somehow?"

The steady almost-smirk tells John that he did as he looks over to John's own chair, asking him to be seated without stating it.  John closes the door, thinks about the drama Mycroft insists on almost every time they are together.

The last time Mycroft had been by Baker Street, it was ostensibly to drop off a new bumble bee charm for Fiona's collection of jewellery.  His bloody _presentation_ hadincluded bee trivia as well as the proper Latin family and genus name, _'did you know, Fiona, that the bee is from the_ bombus _genus?'_  Even six year old Fiona shot a few sideways glances at both Sherlock and John considering when and how they would rescue her, again, from Uncle Mycroft.  

Sherlock's descriptive words later included ridiculous and pompous, said in privacy to John while Fiona ran upstairs to fetch her bracelet from the box on her shelf.  She treated the jewellery box like everything else, with as much acceptance as she treated the skull and the occasional explosion in her home.  Much like the fact that her last name was hyphenated and that she had both a daddy and a papa, it just _was_.  While they had explained about where the box came from and its symbolism, John was sure, as Fiona matured, that she would certainly have questions when she was ready to hear the answers.  Of course, if Sherlock had anything to do with her curiosity level about almost everything, she would be asking for every detail very soon.  She could be, at times, as hungry for knowledge as he was.

Sitting up a bit straighter, Mycroft clears his throat.  "You are already well aware that I tend to keep tabs on people, particularly surrounding the persons closest to me."  John keeps stonily silent, knowing Mycroft will get to the point in his own timing and land the plane eventually.  "I am especially interested in the continued well-being of my brother, of course, so your connections are regularly brought to my attention as well."  

After so many years, John is more-or-less used to it.  "Yes, well, it makes for some fascinating activities some days, finding CCTV cameras turning to follow us, or the random, poor person you hire to do surveillance.  Poorly, I may add.  Sherlock is teaching Fiona how to spot them, too. Great learning opportunity, ta."

An eyebrow raises, and is very reminiscent of the condescension that Sherlock pulls out at times.  "Indeed."  He holds the package out, then, hesitates a few seconds while John makes him wait before taking it.  "This may be of some interest to you, Dr. Watson."

He has pulled out the formal title again, and John works hard to control both the eye-roll and the sigh that would probably not be that fulfilling anyway.

There is a book in his hand, entitled "Mum's New Heart."  It is a hard bound, illustrated children's book, and John glances back over at Mycroft.

"This is scheduled for release next week."

The names of the author and illustrator stands out then, written by Nathan Smythe, illustrated by Penny Smythe, and John quickly flips the book over.  On the rear cover, there is a small photo with a concise biography.  It is _the_ Penny, from the case six years ago, the artist gallery manager, and her son.  John would have recognised her anywhere.  A highlight briefly explains that the book is written from a child's perspective on what the gift of organ donation meant to him and his family, and how it continues to impact their lives.

"Next week, you say?"  It is no surprise that Mycroft could obtain an unreleased edition of a book not yet made public.  "And you thought I should have it in advance.  What, not a _signed copy_?"  John had said nothing to anyone about their meeting, certainly not to Sherlock's brother, but of course had never forgotten it either.  Sherlock would no sooner tell Mycroft anything, John was sure.  And yet, Mycroft knew anyway.

"John."  Mycroft stands, then.  His voice is quiet as he speaks again.  "It did not escape me that your paths crossed, that you likely put it together.  I am also aware that you have, at times, approached Mrs. Smythe's art gallery for the occasional showing, that you wander inside quickly, remain hidden in the crowd as you look around, and leave quietly."  The eyebrow goes up again.  "Never took you for an art afficionado."

John puts his hand on the watercolour drawing on the front cover featuring a mum, a little boy, a rocking chair painted in warm tones.  "Thanks for the book."  John will reveal nothing further or even address it directly.

"It may interest you that both renal recipients are thriving.  Off dialysis for years now.  Pancreatic transplant still doing well, had to add oral diabetic therapy, but he is enjoying his first grandchild.  The liver recipient unfortunately has had some sodium imbalances and regulation has been challenging.  Both corneas -"

"Stop. I get it."  John works at not being too obvious as he blows out as deep breath.  "I'll be sure to tell Sherlock you were here, send him your regards."

"That will not be necessary."

Their eyes meet, and John catches on.  "You've already been there. Naturally."  John's quiet words brought a small smile of acknowledgement to his brother-in-law's face.  "You'll excuse me, then. Back to work."

Mycroft reaches a hand for the doorknob, stops there.  "You may find the book dedication particularly poignant."  The door closes quietly and John remains seated a moment longer, remembering, before opening the front few pages to find the inscription.

_Dedicated to the memory of all who have donated organs.  In particular, to the one anonymous organ donor - a young woman and her family - whose generosity made all of this possible: Thank you for your gift of life.  We may never get the good fortune to meet, but know that we will never forget you.  Rob, Penny, & Nathan_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so enjoyed sharing this story, and as I have kind of fallen in love with this family, I'm sad that it's finished. Thanks for reading. I continue to catch typos and things that have read awkwardly, and so ask if you discover blatant errors please let me know.
> 
> So, yes, apparently the most common harmful bacteria that is colonized in a dog's mouth is porphyromonas. Yuck, even the name sounds disgusting. 
> 
> The coffee mug that John mentions is a reality, one example of which reads "Let's not mistake your internet search for the actual Medical Degree I hold" which by now is probably on the corner of John's desk. I think Sherlock got it for him for Christmas.
> 
> _____
> 
> I confess that there is a dark!Sherlock alternate ending that I am resisting the urge to write, I just love these two characters (plus Fiona) and I'm enjoying where they ended up entirely too much to actually craft it. But it was, for me, a rather shocking enlightenment into my twisted creativity. Plus, it'd just be terribly mean to John if he found out about it, after all this... A part of me, though, is still, well, I don't know, _maybe..._


End file.
